


Snow, Baz, and the Seven Bunces

by LakeWitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 16th Century CE, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballroom Dancing, Bathing/Washing, Castles, Dads being bad dads, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fairy Tale Curses, Feasts, Fluff, Forests, Germany, Grief/Mourning, Horseback Riding, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, I think some of these tags make it sound more bleak than it is, Infection, Internalized Homophobia, Lakes, London and Hampshire are neighbouring kingdoms, M/M, Magic Mirrors, Magic is outlawed, Malnutrition, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, NaNoWriMo 2020, No Smut, Nudity, Prison, Protestant Reformation, Quotes from the Luther Bibel, Relatively brief discussion re: the Church's views on homosexuality, Sharing a Bed, Skinny Dipping, Slow Burn, Snow White AU, Some inspiration taken from BBC's Merlin, Sparring, Stitches, Suicidal Thoughts, Violinist Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, a light stabbing, aka Lutheran Bible in German, chopping wood, kingdom of Watford, kissing cousins, no worse than in canon though, non-con kisses, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LakeWitch/pseuds/LakeWitch
Summary: King David has ordered his huntsman to assassinate his own ward, the prince Basilton, on the eve of Baz's eighteenth birthday. Baffled and upset by this sudden and strange command, Huntsman Simon Snow soon finds himself facing a choice.He could obey the King and murder his arch-nemesis, whom has been nothing but hateful and condescending since they were both eleven; Or, by going against the King's explicit orders and risking his own life, Simon could, perhaps, find another path.A Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs AU
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 65
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to skip over this intro, but I just wanted to draw your attention to some of the tags in case you missed them.
> 
> Warnings for:  
> -Alcohol use  
> -Swearing  
> -Nudity, sensuality  
> -A light stabbing, not a huge deal  
> -Wound care/stitching up with needle and thread  
> -Infection including fever and brief description of the wound  
> -Suicidal thoughts with some degree of intent  
> -Internalized homophobia (it is 16th century sort-of-Germany, after all, and homosexuality is technically illegal)  
> -Discussion of the Church’s views on homosexuality (taking a critical standpoint)  
> -Mentions of malnutrition while in prison  
> -non-con kisses since recipient is unconscious  
> -kissing cousins (though back in the day people _married_ their cousins)  
> -Dads being very bad dads
> 
> And here’s my attempt at a brief backround in case you aren’t familiar with the Protestant Reformation:
> 
> Pre-16th century Germany was Catholic, and the Bible was not accessible to the general public (and it was mostly only available in Latin, which only the elite could understand).  
> Martin Luther (not to be confused with MLK) came along and had many qualms with the Catholic Church, so he translated the Bible into German, and had it distributed so that the general public could read it too.  
> Lots of stuff happened next, like the Counter-Reformation, and the Thirty Years’ War.  
> But I just want you to know that there are Luther Bibel quotes in here because that’s the literature that the common folk now knew really well.

  
  
  
  


_Once upon a time …_  
  
  
  


**THE KING**

The sun paints a gold and ochre stain on the horizon as I peer down from my tower window, toward the grounds below. As the clang of metal-on-metal echoes through the evening air, I observe my ward, the Prince Basilton, sparring with blunt sword opposite my Huntsman in the dirt, while several of my Knights and staff watch on from the side-lines—cheering, shouting their counsel.

In three swift moves, Simon Snow has knocked Basilton onto his back, with sword aimed at his throat. 

Basilton may be physically inferior now, but I do wonder … 

Turning from the window now, I cross my quarters to the green tapestry bearing my coat of arms. With the press of a finger to a hidden notch on the wall, a doorway opens behind the wall-hanging to reveal my sanctum. 

I cross through it; paying no mind to my tables overflowing with my plans, my journals, my many magical experiments. I ascend the four steps at the back, coming to a stop in front of the curtained artifact on the wall. I pull the deep purple fabric aside, revealing an ancient, scratched mirror decorated in a script of long-dead and forgotten language. 

I need to know if I will soon have another Natasha Grimm-Pitch in my midst. 

'Magic mirror on the wall. Who is the most powerful one of all?' 

The mirror shimmers and ripples, like liquid mercury poured into an ornate dish. An image forms on its surface: first an outline of a figure, then I see my own features filling in as if painted in ink—pencil-thin moustache, dimpled chin, brown waves cascading over my shoulders—now reflected back at me. Good. I break out into a grin, and my doppelgänger returns the smile a beat later. 

'You are the most powerful in all the land,' the image of myself recites. 

'Excellent.'  
  
  


**BAZ**

Simon Snow smirks down at me from where I'm sprawled, undignified, on the bare dirt. He looks so smug with the sunset sky framing his face—looks so very pleased with himself for once again flipping me onto my arse.

He's good—I suppose I can admit it—he's quite good. If he'd been highborn, I'm certain he'd be one of the King's most trusted knights. But he isn't, he's only a huntsman; merely responsible for bringing the court its meats. The man standing over me is not too far off from a common peasant, and I am—quite unfortunately—very unhappily in love with him. 

'Again,' I bite out, and he rolls his eyes. 

I am strong; I'm a fucking vampire so I should be able to knock him down at least once. (You'd think, wouldn't you?) But he seems to know just how to use my own strength against me. 

It's maddening. 

'Learn to know when you're beaten, Baz,' the arse advises me, still smirking. 

I scowl at him and his smirk widens into a full, self-satisfied grin. He knows precisely what he’s doing when he calls me “Baz”—he knows how much it irks me. I’ve certainly never given him permission to address me as such. Somewhere along the line the insolent git seems to've forgotten my station, and addresses me with such informality when he knows he should bow to me, call me "sire" and whatnot. Or at least "Prince Basilton". Instead, he addresses me like one of his mates at the inn and he knows it. 

I think I'd like it better, and mind it less, if he truly considered me a friend. But he doesn't—not even close. Simon Snow hates me, so his calling me "Baz" just taunts me, just makes me ache and wish the informality meant what it was supposed to. 

'Again,' I say once more. 

He huffs, but extends a warm, strong hand in my direction. I take it, and I notice the slight flinch pass over him from the chill of my skin. But the flinch fades as if it never happened, and he tightens his grip, yanking me up to stand. 

Times like these are the only ones in which I can touch him. His skin is warm, calloused. It's roughened by use and by necessity. And his touch never lingers. Once its purpose is served, it's over, and I am left with the ghost of it—just a memory. It's in these moments that I know my feelings are not, and will never be, reciprocated. Which is, quite frankly, for the best. 

I straighten my posture, clenching and unclenching the hand that Snow has just touched. It still retains some of his heat. 

'All right,' Snow says with an air of doubt, and moves into position, with blunted sword held at the ready. 

I do a little swooping swing with my sword, and stretch my neck from side to side. I'm certain I'll be sore tomorrow—and during the sodding princess welcoming ball, no less. 

'Ready?' Snow asks. 

' _Yes_.' 

He comes charging in like a bull on a mission, and I manage to lift my sword in time for a clumsy parry. He rounds on me, and clashes hard against my sword, knocking me back a pace. 

I've no time to recover before he's whacking at me again, and, as he twists my sword out of my grip and knocks hard into my shoulder, I lose my balance and fall backwards. I manage to hook my foot around Snow's calf and send him careening over with me. 

I fall in a hard thump on my back, and Snow falls a beat later onto my chest, with sword edge near my throat. 

'Hngh!' escapes my lips as the wind is knocked out of me. 

Wide-eyed, I find myself staring into Snow's mere centimetres away. His are bright and blue and just as pleased with himself as ever. I am glad, though, to see a line of sweat drip slowly from his temple. (Sometimes he is so aggravatingly unscathed and unaffected by these matches.) 

'Are you done?' Snow asks with his mouth so near to my mouth that I suppress a full-body shiver. And he sounds amused by all this. Heavy, warm breaths puff against my face, so I am glad to see him slightly out of breath, glad that he at least had to _try_ this time. 

I attempt to suck in a breath myself, but it's embarrassingly wheezy-sounding. Snow has his entire weight on me, and his blunt sword is still held to my throat. 'Yes,' I manage to croak out. 

I could count every one of his short, brown eyelashes from here. 

'What was that?' The tosser. The absolute _arsehole_. 

' _Yes_.' 

He grins that radiant grin of his, and rolls off me. 

Hoots are coming from the side-lines. Cheers of Snow's name. I'd forgotten that it wasn't just Snow, and me. 

Without a backward glance, Snow stalks off to greet his fans. And I, once again with back in the dirt, push myself up to stand with as much dignity as I can muster. 

Sucking in halting breaths, I don't even bother to snatch up the practice sword as I make my way back to my quarters for a good long soak in the bath. My muscles will thank me for it later. 

Now if only there were something for the ache in my chest.

**SIMON**

Running my hands down the fabric on my chest, I ask, 'Do I look stupid?'

I twist around as I view myself in Penny's full-length mirror from a new angle. It’s an awful lot of white and powder blue—very different from the leathers and well-worn green tunics I normally have on. It’s rather flashy really, and I feel like a bit of a peacock. 

'You look very handsome,' Penny says. And in the reflection, I can see her smiling softly without even glancing up at me from her parchment paper. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, with a letter from the bloke she fancies held in her hands. 

'You aren't even looking at me.' 

'Mm.' 

' _Penny_.' 

'Yes?' She does look up at me then, and frowns. 

I deflate. I feel a bit stupid, and a bit stupid for feeling a bit stupid. But tonight is _important_ , and I've never been to a ball before. I want to look nice, but I feel like a fraud for even thinking I _could_ look nice. So, it's … it's complicated. 

'Simon, don't overthink it.' 

Right. Yeah. Penny's right. 

'Princess Agatha would only marry someone with royal blood anyhow, so there's nothing to even fret over,' she adds, going back to her letter. 

Yeah. 

Yeah … 

As much as I _know_ that I'm nothing but an orphan the King pitied once and graciously allowed to work as his huntsman, it still … well, hurts a bit to hear out loud. Hurts that there isn’t even a chance. 

Especially when I know which absolute tosser is the castle's most eligible royal bachelor—Prince Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Grimm-Pitch, the King's sodding ward. Even his bloody name makes my stomach hurt. 

At least I can still beat him at sparring, though. 

So, _right_ , back to tonight … Princess Agatha is touring the land, and word is her father sent her to look for a possible suitor. (Also, word says she rivals even Helen of Troy for looks.) I don’t know … I suppose I’m hoping she takes one glance at Baz and sees what I see: a mean, self-centred, possibly _evil_ and probably a vampire, arrogant bloody prick. Spoiled. Sullen. Rude. 

And maybe she'll look at me and think: ah, he's different. He's … he's … I don't know, kinder?  
Fuck, I don’t know. I guess it'd be sort-of nice to marry a princess. 

That's all. That's all I'm thinking. It'd just be nice … because if I were married to one, I wouldn't have to work so hard. It's not just hunting animals for the royal meals, no … The King sends me on missions; he has me do his—well—dirty work. Battling dragons and chimeras and goblins and … and it's bloody exhausting is what it is, and I’ve nearly died more times than I can count. 

Sure, I’m given the odd reward—like getting to attend this ball. But normally I’m practically on the level of a chamber maid. 

I turn to look at myself in the mirror again. Compared to Baz … I'm sure I still look shabby, as if I were still in my hunting gear, rather than the nicest outfit I've ever tried on (it's borrowed from Penny's dad—he’s the King’s steward). 

'Do you think Baz is going to the ball?' I ask, frowning at my reflection. 

Penny sighs. (She thinks I talk about Baz too much.) 'Yes, probably.' 

Of course, yeah. He probably has to; King's orders and whatnot. I bet he'll look fucking pristine. He always looks so severely immaculate—decked out in fine black fabrics and furs, never a hair out of place. Except, that is, when we’re sparring … when I’ve knocked him down, hair splayed all in his face, cold grey eyes burning holes into mine and chest heaving from the exertion. 

Sometimes I even manage to tear at his sparring clothes. (Which, mind you, are still lovely and embroidered in delicate stitchings.) It satisfies me to no end when I manage to rip a bit of fabric or get him smudged with dirt—mussing-up that perfect appearance. 

I grimace at my reflection. There won’t be any sparring tonight, and this outfit is a few years old, with stitches a little loosened in places. It's still incredibly nice and expensive-looking, though. 

In the reflection I see Penny is still gazing fondly at the parchment in her hand. She's already dressed—in a rose gown with puffy slashed sleeves, with braided hair twisted up in a tidy updo. She looks quite lovely. 

'What's that you're reading over and over?' I ask. More so because I want her to talk to me and I want to stop thinking about how little I measure up, even with my best efforts. 

'Micah—remember how he was coming along with the princess as one of her attendants?' Penny says, beaming up at me now. And of course I remember, his visit is all she’s talked about for weeks. 'I'll see him at the ball tonight, and he wants to meet me someplace private, so we can have a proper talk.' 

'Oh.' Is that good? 

' _Simon_ , he might ask me to marry him.' 

Marry him? Something twists in my stomach, but I have to be careful not to let it show. 'That's wonderful.' 

She grins at me, and presses the parchment to her chest, hugging it. 

But Micah's from the neighbouring kingdom, from Princess Agatha's kingdom … If they married, I'd lose her, I’d never see her. She’s my best friend. 

I do my best to smile at her, and stride over to pull her into a hug. (It's more for my sake, but she doesn't need to know that.) 

I don't think I'm ready for the fact that, in just a few hours, our lives may completely change.

**BAZ**

I'm sat at the King's side, elevated above everyone else by a several-step high platform, and I’m already quite bored of this whole charade. Tapestries hang from the ceiling in both the King’s emerald green and the London kingdom blue. A small orchestra plays a merry tune from their corner of the hall, and all the guests are milling about around the edges—gushing with one another—and I'm sure their excitable chatter is regarding tonight’s special guest.

Drinks are flowing, candles are burning bright, flickering across the still-vacant dancefloor. 

The doors open to reveal the arrival of the entire Bunce family, with Simon Snow trailing along with them like the family pet. No one pays them any mind, but I do. 

Snow’s eyes find mine immediately, so I scowl at him. (It's what I do.) He shakes his head, grumbling and muttering something to Bunce. In response, she rolls her eyes and ushers him forward by the arm. 

Now I allow myself to look at him—to really look. 

My fingers clench on my lap. I've never seen him like this before—all dressed up, all polished. And I wonder where he got it all—he certainly can't afford it. 

I try to act normal, which for me is "bored" and "vaguely displeased"—I do try, to act normal that is. But … I can't look at anyone else in this soddingly garish ballroom besides him (though that in itself isn't terribly new). 

He's dressed in a light blue doublet. And I imagine it brings out those unremarkable blue eyes when you're stood close enough to see into them. He's also chosen a white jerkin, embroidered with gold thread overtop. It's all rather snug and shapely. Showing off his figure. 

And below … below, his well-muscled legs are adorned with white stockings. 

'Basilton, are you quite well?' 

'Yes, Your Majesty.' I uncurl my fists, and force myself to look away from Snow—resuming my indifferent scanning of the room ... But everyone else is just so frightfully _dull_. 

My eyes wander back to Snow, before I can help it. (I'm a glutton for punishment.) He's stood near the wall opposite, beside Bunce, tugging at his curls. His expression is all twisted up in anxiety. 

I exhale slow. He's lovely. He's lovely even when he's working himself up into a state. (And in the last place he should do so, I might add, or he won’t be invited to one of these again. And, despite appearances, I do like having him here.) 

The doors open, but I'm watching Snow as _he_ watches them. 

'Presenting, Her Royal Highness, Princess Agatha Wellbelove of London.' 

Snow's mouth opens, and hangs like that. That's how you catch flies, I'd tell him. 

A blush creeps up Snows neck, settling blotchy and red on his cheeks. He gives a little shake to his head, and shuts that mouth of his. Next is a slow, showy shallow. 

Snow's eyes haven't strayed from the entrance for a single moment. I'm not even sure he's blinking—they are quite wide and glittery. And I know, I know, that he likes what he sees there. Of course he does. Because Simon Snow is normal, and reacts to a beautiful woman as every proper man seems to. Every man except me. 

I glance over, and the sight makes me sigh aloud. Yes, Princess Agatha is objectively quite lovely (if that's your type). Golden hair like sunbeams, delicate features on pale skin, a high-waisted rich purple gown—jewelled and embroidered across the bust. With a neutral expression, and tight lips, the princess surveys the room, before landing her gaze on … me.

**SIMON**

'I think I should ask her to dance.' My heart rate has gone _wild_. Princess Agatha is the prettiest woman I've ever seen. Like straight out of a fairy tale.

'All right, Simon. Just remember your manners.' 

'I will,' I tell Penny. And of course I will. It's never been more important to _not_ embarrass myself. 

I watch as Princess Agatha makes the rounds of the room, with maidservants in tow. The princess greets a Duke here, a Lady there. She's so _regal_ —it looks effortless. 

'Oh, there's Micah!' Penny exclaims, already walking away from me. 

I spot him—straight-backed and formal near the entranceway. He's frowning slightly at Penny as she hurries towards him. 

Well. I'll leave them to it, and I’ll wait for my opportunity to ask Princess Agatha to dance.

**PENELOPE**

_Micah_. I've waited for this moment for ages, for all my life possibly.

He's so handsome, all tightly dressed-up and polished, with hair neatly combed. He watches me as I approach, and I can't keep a grin off my face—it's a bit embarrassing. I look away, and try to bite it back, because in all the books the damsel is timid and dignified and not grinning like a madwoman before the first word. 

'Penelope,' he says in greeting. 

'Micah!' I say with unbridled enthusiasm. (Well … so much for timid.) 

He looks so handsome up close. He's even got a little moustache—so grown up now. He’s a real, proper man with a good job and everything. 

Micah holds his arm out for me to take, which I happily grab. He’s warm, and solid, and _perfect_. 

He guides me toward the back terrace, and it's wonderfully private since the dance part of the ball has only just started with the Princess’ arrival. I'm already babbling as we walk toward the terrace edge, 'I was so pleased to receive your letter. And to find out that you were visiting! How is Princess Agatha? Is she very nice to work for? I think Simon's got a bit of a crush already. She _is_ quite gorgeous, I freely admit. But a princess, Simon, really?' I laugh. 

'Penelope,' Micah says again. He rounds on me with tight lips. 'It has become quite clear that this needed to be an in-person conversation, as you frequently misinterpret the tone of my letters.' 

I've been smiling expectantly, but find my smile has faded more and more with each word. Hmm. I force my smile back on. 'What are you trying to ask me?' (To marry him— _surely_?) 

'I want you to stop writing to me.' 

I blink. 'Stop?' (Stop because he wants us to live together and letter-writing will be no longer necessary?) (Oh God, I'm think I’m getting a bad feeling about this.) 

'Having a pen pal was fun while we were kids, Penelope. But I find I've quite outgrown it, and my beau is growing suspicious with each new note from you.' 

'Your ... beau?' 

'Her name is Erin and I intend to marry her.' 

' _Erin_? Micah is this a joke?' This is … this is _not funny_. 

He exhales heavily. 'I just knew you would make this difficult. No, it is not a joke.' 

'You're breaking up with me?' My heart is racing. This is wrong, wrong, all wrong. This can't be happening. We were going to get _married_. His note—all the hints … 

'We were not in a romantic relationship,' he says firmly. 

I look out off of the terrace at the darkened well-manicured gardens that stretch out below us. Nothing makes sense. 'I don't understand … I thought …' 

'You only believe what you want to, Penelope. You don't hear what people are politely trying to tell you.' 

I blink, and a few tears drop down. 

'I hope you enjoy the ball,' he says curtly, and I hear his footsteps trail away.

**SIMON**

'May I have this dance?' I bow low. Agatha is even more beautiful up close—she has very pretty eyes that sparkle in the light.

'You may,' she says. 

I straighten up and grin, extending a hand, and she smiles politely in return, taking it. 

Wow ... 

A real princess. 

Her hand is so small and delicate, I’m thinking, as I lead her towards the centre of the dancefloor. And I'm so grateful that Penny taught me how to dance, as I begin to lead her into a slow waltz. 

'You are the King's Huntsman,' she says. It isn't a question. 

'Yes,' I admit. I'm a bit disappointed—I was hoping she'd get to know me a little first before learning my title. 'I'm Simon Snow.' 

She nods, and looks over my shoulder at the other guests. 'What do you know of Prince Basilton?' 

I clench her waist harder, and she looks at me, a bit alarmed. 'Sorry,' I say, relaxing my grip. 'Well … Baz is … the King's ward.' 

'I already knew that. Why don’t you tell me something more personal about him?' 

This is … not at all what I want to talk about. But it's the princess, so I suppose I have to. 'Er … well …' My eyes stray to the subject of our conversation, all on their own. Baz is on his pedestal, aside the King, and he is positively glowering at me. I swallow, and avert my eyes (because I can't talk _about him_ when he's looking at me like that.) 'Baz's mum was killed when he was a child,' I admit, wincing. It feels weird to talk about something so personal … but everyone in the castle knows this information, so I'm not really betraying him or anything. (Not that I'd care, yeah?) 'His family's kingdom and ours were at war with one another. His mum died—I'm not really sure the details—then a peace treaty was drawn up. Baz was sent here as a sign of good faith.' 

Princess Agatha nods, and I see her eyes straying to Baz—full of pity. 'What else?' 

'He …' I screw up my eyebrows. (I know I have to be civil, here.) 'He plays the violin. Really beautifully, actually.' My face heats up. I'm not good at this. 

I haven’t told anyone before that I, ah, sometimes listen outside his lessons. Just so I know what he’s up to—just so I know he isn’t, like, up to something. 

'Oh? How lovely,' says the princess. 

'He's good at everything,' I admit. The only subject I ever bested him at growing up was swordsmanship. And even then, he is still quite decent. 'Speaks several languages, excels at maths and literature and all that.' 

'Mm,' Princess Agatha hums, evidently pleased. 

I look at Baz again, and he looks back at me like I'm a speck of dirt on his shiny-black shoes. I could mention the other things I know about Baz: that he sneaks out into the forest every night, returning with bloodstains on his cuffs and more colour to his skin; or that he's hated me from the moment he first saw me—when we were just kids—when he was wandering around the castle lost at night and I stopped to offer help. He'd spat at me, and scowled at my muddy clothing (I'd just come from a hunt). How I'd never before felt so small, so "lesser", than when he'd said he wouldn't tolerate being addressed by a mere peasant. 

When he’d found out that I have a proper position, he didn’t even change his expression. He just looked bored—he very often looks bored. 

(Suffice to say, I’ve enjoyed sparring with him in the years after that first incident.) 

But I won't tell Princess Agatha these things, as much as I may like to. 

'He's very handsome,' she remarks, turning her head to gaze at him. 

And there's that. Yes.

**BAZ**

I've had just about enough of watching those two dance. And I've certainly had enough of Snow's stares. (They do make quite a pair, I admit—golden and radiant both.) (And what a beautiful tragedy their star-crossed romance would be—brave and gallant huntsman with fair, gentle princess).

I rise up from my seat, and descend towards the dancefloor. 

Ignoring others' attempts to greet me, I head straight over to Simon Snow. 

'May I cut in,' I say. And I say it while staring straight into Snow's blue eyes. (And yes, they do seem somewhat enhanced by the colour of his clothing.) 

Does he know that when I say this, part of me hopes he'll interpret my words the way I truly mean them? 

The two of them halt their dancing, and the princess's hands fall away from Snow. 

His eyes shoot daggers at me, and he's biting down so hard his jaw muscles twitch. So, no, then—he doesn't interpret my words as I wish I could articulate aloud. 

( _Dance with me, Snow_.) 

(Just imagine the looks we would get! The very idea makes me practically giddy, just as much as it shames me.) 

'I would be honoured,' says the princess, stepping into my personal space, stepping between me and Snow. 

And with that, Snow turns to retreat. I know he can't make a scene here—and he knows it too. I'm disappointed, all the same. 

I lead the princess into an easy dance—she is quite graceful and well-trained in the art, as is fitting her station. It's terribly boring. 

'I am told you play the violin very beautifully,' Princess Agatha remarks. 

'Oh?' Her words surprise me—I don't normally play for an audience. 

'The King's Huntsman had many favourable things to say about you and your many talents.' 

I laugh, despite myself, because that is not the Simon Snow that I know. He has hated me ever since we were children—he would always taunt me, goad me into sparring with him rather than with any of the others. And if ever anything goes wrong, he's sure to accuse me no matter how ludicrous. (I’ve been blamed for the behaviour of mice three times thus far.) It's a personal vendetta against me I'm not sure how I ever earned. 

'The King's Huntsman?' My eyes search for him in the crowd. 

'Yes, I believe his name is Simon Snow?' 

I find him. He's with a rather distraught Bunce, and they are hurrying over to the exit. I frown. 

Leaving so soon?

**SIMON**

Penny is clearly upset. We're rushing out of there, and Penny is wiping at her eyes every few seconds.

'Penny …' I say softly. 

She doesn't respond, so I simply follow her through the winding corridors. 

'Can we—go to your room?' she gasps out. 

'Of course!' I lead her down the stone steps, down a long hallway, and down another set of steps. 

I open my door, and Penny pushes past me to beeline for my bed—which, I'm afraid I didn't quite make today. She doesn't seem to mind though, and collapses face-first against my pillow and tangled bed linens. 

My room isn't exactly large by any means … it's a bed and a trunk with my few possessions. My bow and quiver hang from a hook on the wall. And I've a tiny window that looks north, towards the forest. So, I light a candle, and then I sink down onto the edge of the narrow bed, by Penny's feet. 

Her shoulders are shaking, and she's hugging my pillow close to her face. 

I guess seeing Micah again mustn't have gone well. And I feel awful. I feel guilty about the small part of me that resented him—that thought he was going to be taking Penny away. Now that Penny's heart is broken, I only want her to be happy, even if that means it takes her far from me. 

I pat at Penny's calf through her massive skirts, and I try not to be selfish and think about Baz swooping in to dance with the princess like some sort of dark hero. I sigh. I mean … it's not as if the dance with her was going that well to begin with. I think she'd only wanted insider information on Baz and I can't really fault her for it … he is the prince. The most eligible people in this castle for a princess are Baz and the King Himself. I wince. Baz is definitely the better option, even if he is probably a vampire. 

'Simon,' Penny says as she sucks in a wet breath. 'You can stop patting me now.' 

I blink, and realise my hand is still patting at her calf. I remove it fast, and clasp my hands tight on my lap. 'Sorry.' 

She flops onto her back, and grimaces at the ceiling. Her face is very wet. 'Micah broke it off.' 

I almost pat her again, but I restrain myself at the last moment. 'Fuck … I'm so sorry.' 

'I should've seen the signs. He said he's been hinting it for ages, and I refused to see the truth.' 

Frowning, I say, 'You're one of the smartest people I know, Pen. I’m sure it wasn't as obvious as he thought.' 

'I don't know …' 

I almost pat her again—she looks so sad and lost. 

Still staring at the ceiling, she asks, 'How was your night? Better than mine, I hope?' 

'Well ... I did get to dance with the princess.' Penny smiles faintly. 'But Baz cut in before the dance was finished.' 

'Well princes and princesses generally belong together.' 

'Yeah …' They do ... I know they do.

She kicks me lightly with her foot. 'I'm sorry. Guess we both had awful evenings.' 

I manage a small smile in return. 'It was still nice to go to a ball, you know? To pretend like I could belong. And I did get to dance with a princess.' 

'You do belong, Simon.' 

I don't, but it's a nice sentiment. 

'C'mon, lie down,' she says, and budges closer to the wall. 

So I do, I climb in beside her, where her massive skirts press in to my leg. She leans her head against my shoulder, and I lean mine against the top of her head. 

We lie like this in silence for a long while. Penny’s breaths slow, and I begin to suspect she may be asleep.

**PENELOPE**

I guess I dozed off there for a bit. When I open my eyes, I'm very bodily uncomfortable, and all I see Simon's head. He's staring up at the ceiling.

Then I remember: Micah. And that just makes me scowl. I don't even want to cry anymore, so my teary eyes annoy me. 

Well, it's late. I should get back home before it gets any later. I'll snatch a lantern and get a move on. I push to sit up on the bed. 

'Where are you going?' 

'Home.' I try to climb over Simon, but these skirts are horribly in the way. God, I hate ball gowns. 

'Stay. It's far too late.' 

'Honestly, Simon, I don't want to wear this dress for one more second.' 

Laughing under his breath, he says, 'You can borrow something of mine to sleep in. It's too late to walk all the way home.' 

I peer out of Simon's tiny slat of a window, and I can't make out anything at all out there in the darkness. He might have a point. It is a bit of a walk from the castle to my family home. And my parents won't be expecting me. They'll assume I'm with ... Micah. I sigh.

Simon manoeuvres out from under my dress and rifles around in his trunk for something I can wear to sleep in. A thick, wintery chemise seems the best option. 

I climb out of the bed, and he loosens my laces for me because I couldn't possibly get out of this dress on my own. Then we turn our backs to one another in order to undress out of our finery and into the chemises for sleep. Now, with that all sorted, we climb back into the small bed, and Simon blows out the candle. 

He flips onto his side to face me. It's dark, but I can make out parts of his features from the sliver of light shining through the cracks in the door. 'How are you feeling?' he asks softly. 

I shrug, and he nods like he understands. 

I reach through the blankets, searching for his hand. When I find it, he squeezes back reassuringly. 

We fall asleep like this, hand-in-hand.

**SIMON**

I wake up at dawn, with slivers of morning light finding their way through my tiny window. I turn my head, and see that Penny is still fast asleep with a mass of dark curls splayed across the pillow. There’s a slight frown on her mouth, and a vertical indent between her eyebrows, as she breathes deeply.

I’ll let her sleep, since Penny doesn’t have duties like I do, and I think she needs the rest. Her parents work in the castle, so she is often here—hanging about—but there’s no rush at all for her to get up. Me—however—I have to catch something for the King’s supper. 

I dress in my huntsman leathers, and strap on my quiver and hunting knife. I feel more like myself already, so much more myself than I had yesterday. 

I close the door quietly behind me, so as not to wake Penny, and then I’m off. First, though, I snatch a loaf of bread from the steaming kitchens—already full of workers pushing past one another, clanging metal ladles against metal pots as they work to prepare the castle’s first meal of the day. I slip out without notice, and then I cross the great lawn towards the forest in the north. 

There’s a comforting dewy, earthy scent in the air, and I breathe it all in deep. It’s silent now, as I walk over moss and stone, with beams of light trailing down past the branches overhead. I know this forest well; I’ve walked it nearly every day I’ve lived here. I know its trees—from its tall needly pines, to its strong and towering oaks. I know its babbling rocky streams, its birds, its mushrooms; I know the earth’s many bends and twists like the back of my hand. And today? Today I just need to find a deer. 

The day wears on, my loaf is long since eaten, and I’m hungry again with nothing to show for my efforts. At least the day is nice, though. A bit cool, but sunny with nary a cloud overhead past the leafy canopy above. 

A rustling and the snap of a twig reaches my ears. I pad carefully towards the sound, drawing my bow and arrow in silence. 

I’m close. I crouch behind a section of thick brush, then I lift up so only my eyes are visible above the greenery, and I aim. 

I ... I thought it would be a deer. I did not expect those sounds to've lead me to Baz and Princess Agatha in the depth of the forest. 

My arrow is pointed at Baz's neck, my bow taught. And if I let go, he'll die. 

I lower my arms towards the forest floor, relaxing my grip on the string. 

They make … quite the picture there, amongst the tall trees, amongst the sunbeams streaming down through the small clearing. Baz has both of the princess's hands in his. And she is gazing up at him with naked affection. Her hair is loose, and spilling in golden ringlets down her back. 

And the way she's looking at him, like she may … love him … 

I swallow hard, and I turn around to head in the opposite direction. I can't bear to see any more.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far ❤️


	2. Chapter 2

**THE KING**

'Magic mirror on the wall. Who is the most powerful one of all?' I ask, on the morning of Basilton's eighteenth birthday.

And I am hoping I am wrong. 

The surface simmers, and forms a vague shape. It focusses into the form of a man: hair black as ink, then eyes becoming clearer—slate grey. 

_Basilton._

'Prince Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is the most powerful of all,' is said in the boy’s own drawl. 

_Curses_ , I am thinking as I grit my teeth. I cannot have the boy discovering the truth about his mother's death, nor can I have him raise an army against my kingdom in retaliation—armed with this newly-acquired magical power that outmatches my own. 

I know now what must be done for the good of my people. Before it is too late. 

I pull the curtain to cover the ill-fated image, and leave my sanctum. Next, I open up my chamber door where two guards wait at attention. 

'Bring me Simon Snow.’

**SIMON**

I enter the King's bedroom chamber and bow. 'Your Majesty?' I ask, as I straighten up.

The King seems intense—or more intense than normal anyway. His eyes are probing straight into my soul right now, as he stands a bit closer to me than usual. I don't think he's blinking either, and it's quite unnerving (but I'm trying not to show it). 

I just hope he isn’t sending me out on a long mission again. But if he is, I hope it isn’t another chimera. 

'Simon, I have a very important mission for you.' His tone is icy.

I nod curtly, and wait. He's still scrutinising me rather closely. _Please don’t let it be a chimera …_

'Tonight, after Basilton's birthday dinner, you are to follow him on one of his nightwalks.' 

_Oh_ , that wasn't what I was expecting. I wonder if he finally believes me about Baz being a vampire? 

'And you are to kill him.' 

I blink. 

And then I blink a little more. 

'Sorry, Your Majesty, did you say … ?' 

'I need you to kill Basilton tonight, Simon,' the King says, without a twitch. His tone is hard, cold, matter-of-fact. 

And I don't understand … 

'We will tell everyone that you've taken a small envoy to return Basilton to his birthplace. But in truth you will kill him, and then you will disappear for four weeks before returning to proclaim that you delivered him safely. Is that clear?' 

I nod, because I know that's what he expects me to do right now. My hands are trembling, so I clasp them tight behind my back. 

'And, tonight, before you lay-low, you will return to me his heart, as proof.' 

Proof. 

Of Baz's death. 

I nod. 

'Repeat it back to me, so I know you understand,' the King commands. 

My mouth feels terribly dry. I lick at my lips first, then I say, 'Tonight, after the party …' _Baz's birthday party._ 'I will follow Prince Basilton on his walk, and I will kill him.' Is this real? 'I will bring you back his heart, and I will disappear for four weeks. Everyone will believe I escorted him to Hampshire.' 

'Yes. Very good.' The King seems satisfied. 

I nod again, because that's all I know how to do right now. 

'You are dismissed.' 

I bow, and I don't waste any time retreating out of there. Once out the door, I walk faster and faster until I'm racing through the halls, down the steps, out the door. I'm swiftly walking towards the stables without even thinking why. 

I spot Princess Agatha from behind, feeding an apple to a white stallion. Before she can sense me, I duck around the back where it's only dirt, blown away scraps of hay, and broken heaps of wood. Through bated breaths, I sink down to the ground with my back against the stable outer wall. 

I'm supposed to kill Baz. On his 18th birthday. 

I bury my face in my shaking hands.

**BAZ**

This feast is terribly dull. The dining room is dim—the long tables lit sparsely by candlelight. I suppose it’s meant to have an atmosphere of some sort. There's a man singing with a lute in the corner to everyone's apparent enjoyment, while the princess keeps prattling into my ear about equestrian matters, and I really could not be bothered about any of it.

I don’t know. I’ve felt a bit odd all day, but I can’t quite put my finger on the cause. 

Plus Snow is acting strange. He's adopted a thousand-yard stare, and he's hardly eaten any of the food laid before him. This isn't like him, not at all. As I study him, Snow's eyes flicker up to mine—so suddenly that I nearly startle. He looks … haunted. I raise an eyebrow in question, and he simply stares back for a beat, then shifts his gaze to the princess beside me. If anything, his expression seems more troubled upon looking at her. 

Ah. I think I know what this is, then. It's jealousy. 

I wouldn’t’ve thought Snow would feel so strongly after half a dance and a few glances around the castle, but here we are. Snow wants her for himself, and sees me as his rival. And I suppose I am, aren't I? 

_Well, it gives me no joy, Snow._ Truthfully I'd rather he sat beside me instead, prattling on about quivers and holsters or whatever it is that interests him lately. I'd rather be smelling the earth off of him, leather and heat, rather than Princess Agatha's flowery perfume that tickles my nose. I'd rather feel Snow's knee, brushing up against mine. Or his elbow, as he cuts his meat. I'd rather hear him chew loudly, and glare at me. (At least I'd have him near.) 

But it doesn't do to think like this. It doesn't matter that I've quietly loved him for years. He is a _man_ , I remind myself. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, and allow the princess's words to wash over me. She’s speaking about a much-beloved horse from her childhood. 

That strange feeling is still there. I first noticed it this morning—like a buzzing under my skin, a heat. I feel off—off-kilter, and I'm not sure whether or not I need to be concerned. Perhaps I just need a good night's sleep—God knows I haven't had one in far too long.

**SIMON**

I slip out before dessert is even served. I just can't bear to sit there, and wait—waiting for the hour when I'm supposed to kill Baz.

I was just watching him eat his _last meal_ , and he doesn’t even know it. 

He's only eighteen … Baz may be evil, and he may be a vampire … but, still, he's only a boy. He's just a _person_ , and I've never killed a person before. 

The King must have his reasons, he always does. But I am very seldom told what they are. Just this once though … just this once I desperately want to know how any of this can be justified. 

I wind through deserted stone hallways, lit only by oil lamps set in the walls. Everyone's either at the feast, or helping out in the kitchens, or tending to their evening duties on the grounds. 

I find myself back at my quarters, and sit down hard on my bed. 

Looking around at my sparse possessions, my tiny room, I think: what if I just ran away? I've never thought about doing that before—it's never even crossed my mind. The castle has been my only true home; this life is all I know now. 

But, it occurs to me: if I leave, if I run from this, the King will find someone else to kill Baz. 

At least if I do it, I can make it quick and painless. 

_Fuck_. 

I bury my head in my hands, and tears spring to my eyes. I hate this. I hate this so much. We might not be friends, by any means. But we grew up alongside each other since age eleven. 

I remember the way Princess Agatha and Baz looked in the forest that day … like they were in love, like they were just about to kiss, or had just kissed. And the way the princess was looking at Baz tonight … as if he were the only person in the room. 

How can I be the one to take that away from her? 

It's not right. It's not … 

No. It has to be right, because the King is asking me. He must know something I don't … some logical reason, something that is indisputable. Maybe Baz really is a vampire, maybe he’s been drinking the blood of people around the castle. Maybe someone’s died … 

The thought sends a shiver up my spine. 

I know the King is a good man, a benevolent man. He took me in when I was an orphan, just a child without shoes, begging for scraps on the streets. (I … don't like thinking about that time—I don't like remembering.) Point is—the King rescued me. I owe him my life and I trust him, so I'll do what I must. 

And I won't think. I just won't think. 

So I pull myself up off the bed, and change out of my dinner clothes into my huntsman uniform. I buckle my scabbard belt into place, and strap a blade to my ankle. I take my bow and my quiver as well. I'm not sure why I do; I suppose it's to appear as if I'm going for a hunt so as not to alert anyone to my true motives tonight. 

And then I exit the castle doors and go out into the forest to wait. 

It's windy, which is good. If I'm downwind from Baz, he's unlikely to smell me. 

I let myself disappear into the brush, and I watch the castle. I wait. And I don't think.

**BAZ**

Snow left before dessert— _dessert_.

He must be terribly love sick, and I am sorry for it. Despite appearances, I would prefer Simon Snow to be happy. If I could give him my title, I would—then he could live happily ever after as prince and princess with the woman beside me. And I could leave this place behind, and I can forget about all my ties to Hampshire and the throne I am meant to inherit; Perhaps I could lead a somewhat-regular life someplace—either in the countryside near a forest overladen with deer or in a small village somewhere. Could I do it? Give my life to Simon Snow, so that he could be happy, even if it meant I'd never see him again? 

Yes. 

I think I could. 

I look at said-princess, carefully cutting off a minuscule piece of krapfen, and bringing it up to her dainty mouth. Snow should be here, stuffing a krapfen into his mouth with his bare hands. She sees me looking, swallows her tiny mouthful, and smiles. 

'Are you enjoying your time at Watford?' I don't know why I ask; I suppose because she's caught me staring, and I should at least attempt pleasantries. 

'Oh, yes. It's a lovely castle.' 

'Mm.' It's fine, I suppose, as far as castles go. It's certainly brighter, and more open than my ancestral home. 

'And I find the company quite agreeable.' 

I offer her the best smile I can manage in the moment, but my eyes drift to Snow's empty seat. 

'Excuse me,' I bow to her, and make to get up. 

She carefully masks her disappointment—but I do catch it for a split second. The princess bids me a good night, and smiles politely. 

I excuse myself with the King, who nods with a glare and a grim, tight-lipped smile, and then I retire to my quarters. A servant soon brings me a portion of dinner. (I don't like to eat in front of others—it's a generally-accepted quirk of mine by now. They don't need to know that my fangs pop when I eat.) 

After I finish my meal, I leave the castle in order to find something to drink. 

A stomach full of food hasn't taken away that odd feeling—like something flows in my veins that isn't just blood. I flex my fingers as I walk towards the forest, and stretch my neck side to side. Strange. 

I'll drink quickly, and then I'll hurry back to sleep off whatever this is. 

Unfortunately it's a windy night, blowing in the direction of the forest's core, so I'm having trouble smelling prey. 

At last, a twig snaps, and I turn my head sharply. I sense movement there, beyond the brush. I approach quietly, just until I get a sense of a precise position. There's a crunch there, a footstep, and so—without hesitation—I leap. 

It's a boar, I register, as I sink my fangs into it and wrap my arms tight around its neck. The animal struggles, it screeches—but I am stronger. 

I manage to snap its thick neck, and the boar slumps against the soft earth. I have now felt its life leave it, but there is still plenty left to drink. 

'Baz.' 

A cold chill seeps up my spine, and it's as if time has frozen in place. I'm … I'm caught. He's finally done it. Snow has caught me in the act. I can't believe I've allowed this to happen _again_ ... I've always been so careful. But tonight, the wind and that strange feeling flowing through me—I am not myself, and ... 

And now this the end. He will kill me for what I am. 

I slowly withdraw my fangs from the animal, and I lick the blood from my lips, before I turn to face my fate. 'Snow.' 

He's stood a couple metres away, already in battle stance, with sword held in both hands and feet shoulder-length apart. 

I brush the dirt and stray boar hairs off my legs and straighten up to stand. Snow's eyes follow mine. 

'You're a vampire,' he says, matter-of-fact. 

I'm rather surprised at his calm. He's been accusing me of this for years, and now he finally has his proof. He should be gloating, or seething. Something. 

'Yes,' I answer. 

'You feed on animals.' 

'Yes.' 

'Ever people?' 

What is this, Snow? An interrogation? I close my eyes, and will my fangs to retract. And _they do_. (They usually don't listen to me.) 'I would never,' I say, truthfully, as i open my eyes again. Snow's expression hasn't changed. I wish I knew what he was thinking. 

His hands move, and I wince, bracing myself. This is it. 

But Snow doesn't come in for the kill, instead he's tossed his sword at my feet. I look at him in question, but all he does is fix me with a grim stare, and reaches for the blade at his ankle. 

'Pick up the sword,' he says, as he holds the hunting knife in the same stance as he had the sword a moment earlier. Snow wants to spar; he wants me to put up a fight. How very noble of him. 

'No.' 

The blade lowers a fraction. 'Pick up the sword, Baz.' 

'I won't.' He can kill me, but I'm not going to pretend it's a fair fight just to help him sleep at night. I haven't got it in me. 

'Please.' 

'No.' 

'Baz—' 

'I will not assist you in feeling better about killing me! Either do it or don't do it!' 

He takes a step closer to me, eyebrows knitted together as if he's pained by this. And good—rightfully so! He should be pained. 

I want him to _feel_ it. 

I want him to _remember_. 

I take a step back—it's involuntary. I guess I don't want to die, not really. And I think I'm only realising this now. My life might be shit, but I'm still not ready for it to end. 

I haven't even kissed anyone before, not even once. Not even a girl, just to see if I might actually like it. Truth is, Snow is the only person I've ever wanted to kiss. 

But would Simon Snow kiss me? Kiss me, then kill me? That'd be the ideal way to go, at least. But I don't know if I'd have enough time to kiss him before his knife pierces my chest. Maybe I'll be lucky and it'll be a slow death, like in those stories. I'll bleed out in his arms, and he'll cry over me. Because he didn't want to do this, not really. It's his duty, that's what he'll say, he’s sworn an oath to extinguish monsters. And then I'll kiss him. 

And maybe before I go, I'll finally say those forbidden words, those words that are even more deplorable than my vampirism. 

_I love you_. 

And he'll be disgusted with me, in those last seconds. But at least I'll have told the truth, just the once. 

Snow takes another step forward, and I hold my head up high. I plant my feet to the ground, even though every instinct is telling me to run. I'll face this, I have to.

**SIMON**

I wish he'd pick up the sword. It would give him the advantage.

Instead, Baz is just standing there, two steps away from a dead boar, meeting my eyes. There is fear in them, and I see that his hands are trembling, only slightly. 

He's a vampire—he's a sodding apex predator, and he's just going to stand there? 

Baz would simply let me kill him? Unacceptable. I know the King's orders, but … but … this is Baz. He always meets me half-way. 

'Baz …' I plead with him. 'I have to …' 

'Then do it.' 

I … 

I look at his chest, I look at the space where I'd stab him—between his ribs and through the heart. He's a vampire, it probably has to be through the heart. 

He's wearing the same clothes he had at dinner—his _birthday_ dinner. 

I look up into his eyes. 'Do you love the princess?' I don't know why I ask it. I think I'm searching for an excuse _not_ to kill him. Anything will do. Love will do. 

He blinks at me, with eyebrows raised—seemingly shocked by my question. His face twists, into something conflicted, something pained. 'Which answer means you won't kill me?' 

I grit my teeth. He's making this so bloody difficult.

**BAZ**

Does he want me to say yes? Or no? I honestly don't know the correct answer.

Presumably he loves _her_ , so if I say I love her as well, will he kill me to eliminate the competition? Or if I say the truth, if I say no, will that appease his guilt when he kills me—if he's thinking of the princess's hypothetical unrequited feelings? He'll see it as excusable? 

I really don't know. 

Snow is studying my face, and I'm studying his right back. 

He lowers his blade, as well as his gaze. 'I don't want to kill you.' 

'So don't.' 

His body tenses, but he says nothing. 

'Pretend you didn't see this, and I'll be more careful in the future.' He doesn't move. 'It's only animals, never people, and I try to only take the male ones.' 

He lifts his gaze to mine—he truly looks pained _now_. 'I was commanded … by the King.' 

The King? 

I straighten my posture. I … 

I did not expect that. 

The King and I haven't had the closest relationship, sure. But I hadn’t suspected he wanted to kill me. 

'Why?' I eventually bring myself to ask. 

'I don't know.' 

I look off in the direction of the castle, I can see a turret above the treeline with a light glowing in a window, and that is about it. 'You had better do it, then.' 

There really is no hope for me, now. 

Well … I'm glad it's Snow. I'm glad it's his face I'll see.

**SIMON**

'I don't want to,' I say again.

 _Fuck_. I really truly don't. And I don't know how … 

How not to. 

'You must.' 

It's almost as if he's trying to make me feel better about it—about killing him. That makes it _worse_. 

How can I kill Baz? I've known him since we were eleven, and he was this pompous little boy who thought he was older than he was. Always sticking that already too-high nose up in the air, as if everything below it stunk of shite. And maybe that was a bit fair—I was always covered in mud and who-knows-what back then. 

Baz was always clean and careful with his appearance. he looked like a proper miniature prince. And, inexplicably, all I feel is fondness about that now. 

'I don't want to.' I guess I keep saying those words in order to delay. 

'Then I will.' Baz comes in fast, and grabs onto my hand, overtop the lowered knife. His hands are cold and gentle, but firm with me. 

'No—' 

'Just stay with me, will you?' Baz asks, asks so earnestly. His eyes are pleading with me as he holds on tight. 'Sit with me while I go. Please.' 

' _No_.' 

'Very well.' He looks defeated, and resigned, as he raises my hand to point the blade towards his own heart. 

'No! I mean—I mean I won't—' I try to yank the knife away from him, but he tightens his grip. 

And now were in a tug-of-war over killing/not-killing him. I twist, and wrench the knife away from him, but then he's tackling me into the dirt, and I'm trying to keep the knife away from his skin at the same time as I'm trying to stop this—stop _him_. 

I manage to get a bit stabbed in the thigh as we wrestle and tumble over the ground, but that's all right, because I've manoeuvred Baz onto his back, and I'm pinning him down, with wrists on either side of his head. I'm sitting on him with all my weight, and he can't move. I've got him exactly where I want him now—where he can’t get hurt. 

Baz is out of breath, huffing and staring up at me wild-eyed. 'Snow, you have a knife lodged in your leg.' 

'I know.' 

'Are you going to do something about that?' He sounds a bit panicked, but I'm not—I'm just relieved I've got him pinned. 

'Are you going to stop trying to kill yourself?' I counter. 

He frowns at me, and I sigh. 

I'm not going to do it, and I think a part of me knew that all along. My eyes find the boar, slumped dead near us, and I make a decision. 

'The King told me to bring back your heart as proof,' I say slowly, as a plan is hatching itself in my head. 'I'm going to cut out that boar's heart, and I'm going to bring it back to the King.' I search Baz's eyes. 'And then I'm going to take you someplace safe, where you can hide away until we can figure out how to get you back to your family.' 

'Why would you do that?’ Baz searches my eyes right back. ‘If he finds out what you've done, he'll kill you.' 

'He won't find out,' I say with more confidence than I feel. 'And … and I'm doing this because it's the right thing. But it's only going to work if you go along with it. Will you?' 

Baz is wide-eyed staring up at me, but he nods—just slightly. 

'Okay. Good.' And then I release Baz's wrists and yank the knife out of my leg. 

'Snow— _Jesus_.' Baz rushes to put his hands on my thigh—applying pressure to the wound. 

'Thanks,' I mumble as I use the bloodied knife to cut off a strip of fabric from the bottom of my tunic. 

I lift up off of Baz, and wrap the strip tight around my thigh and tie a knot. It does hurt like the fires of hell, I admit, now that the knife is out. The wound feels bloody _hot_ , as if it were set on fire. But that's the least of our problems now, and I must simply try to ignore it. 

Next task is to cut out the boar's heart, which I do easily enough as Baz wipes my blood off his hands with some moss. 

'Okay,' I say, straightening up to stand, with a warm, dead heart in my palm. 'I'll just pop this over to the King and then I'll be back, all right? You'll wait right here?' 

Baz nods at me slowly. He looks like he's trying to figure me out, and, well, this is me, I guess. 

I make sure to take my knife and my sword with me, just in case Baz gets any more terrible ideas while I'm gone.

**BAZ**

As soon as Snow disappears from sight, I sink to the ground. I know I was trembling before, but now I truly let it out—I let _go_. My whole body shakes as I struggle to come to grip with this.

Simon Snow was supposed to murder me tonight. And then, he didn't. 

Why on earth didn't he? 

And now he … now he's off to the castle to lie to the King's face. And I'm afraid that if his deception is discovered, Snow will be killed for it—killed because of me. I clench my hands into fists. That'd be unacceptable, that'd be … I don't want to think about it. I _can't_ think about it. Snow will succeed and I will make sure that nothing happens to him because of his decision tonight. 

I have to believe in him—that he knows what he's doing—I have to trust him right now, or else I'll drive myself mad. 

A thought occurs to me though, out of seemingly nowhere: Snow may change his mind. He might turn back when he realises (and rightly so) that I am not worth this tremendous risk. 

I could run—I could. I could save myself, just in case. 

But then I'd never know, never know if Snow was all right, if he'd pulled off the ruse, if he'd come back for me like he said he would. 

I don't know what to think. Perhaps I simply shouldn't.

**THE KING**

Simon Snow is brought to me, covered in blood and muck—looking positively exhausted and minorly wounded.

'Is it done?' I ask. 

Simon nods solemnly, opening up his bloody palm. It holds a heart. 

I come closer, and clap him on the shoulder. 'You've done well, Simon. The kingdom owes you a great debt.' I move to my desk to fetch the ornate box I've set aside just for this occasion, and I hold it open for Simon. 'When you return in four weeks, I will see about upgrading your quarters to something a bit grander, hmm?' 

Simon bows his head as he sets the heart in the box. 'Thank you, sire.' 

'Come back no sooner than twenty-eight days, then.' 

'Yes, sire.' 

'You're dismissed.' 

I watch him nod, and turn to leave. I allow myself to smile now, as he disappears from view. 

It is unfortunate that the boy had to die, but sometimes one soul's death is necessary to preserve a whole kingdom of souls. Such is the burden of a King.

**SIMON**

My leg hurts something horrible, and not sure it _isn’t_ on fire, but I have to return to Baz. So I'm simply not going to think about how I'm limping, and every time I put weight on my leg, pain shoots up my whole side.

I snatch a lantern first, because I know we’re likely to need it for the journey ahead. Then I leave the castle, and walk as calmly and inconspicuously as I know how. 

Once I clear the treeline, I rummage around the forest floor for a stick I can use. It takes me a while, but I do eventually find one tall and sturdy enough to use as a walking stick. It helps, some. 

Now—to Baz. 

I hobble along, following the same route I'd left him from. And then there he is, sat cross-legged against a tree—facing me. And I'm so relieved that he's still there—still safe. I notice that the boar is gone, or hidden, but there are traces of blood all around (probably mine, and the boars). 

'You came back,' he says, just as I say, ‘You’re still here.’ 

We stare at each other for a beat. I say, 'Of course I did.'

**BAZ**

He's all right. And he came back to me.

I could … I could embrace him right now. I could hold him so tight that I'd be certain no man or beast or King could get past my arms to snatch him into harm's way. 

Lord, I really need to rein myself in right now—before Snow notices the depth of my emotions, the depth of my _relief_.

**SIMON**

He’s eyeing me with a look I can’t quite interpret, and then he’s glancing away at the dirt near his feet. 'The King accepted the boar heart without issue?'

' _Yes._ Now, come on. We should get moving.' 

Slowly, Baz pushes himself up to stand. 'Where are we going?' 

Right. I hadn't thought that far ahead. But my leg is messed up, and I really just want to lie down—so I think of all the places I go to that no one knows about. I’ve two makeshift treehouses that I use for hunting. But I’d never be able to climb into them with the state I’m in. 

So I'm thinking I'll take him to my abandoned old cottage out by the lake. It’s a bit far, but no one goes there, no one knows _I_ go there, not even Penny. I sleep there sometimes when I'm exhausted from a hunt or a mission and I can't quite make it all the way back. Or just sometimes when the castle’s thick walls are too much for me—when I need a bit of open air for a while. It’s also got an indirect path to Penny’s, if we need somewhere to escape to in a pinch. 

'A safe place,' I say, as I lead him deeper into the woods. 'Try not to break off any leaves or twigs, in case we're being followed.' 

'Do you think someone followed you?' 

'No.' 

Baz sighs, but he seems mindful of his steps nonetheless. 

We walk in silence, and I lead him on a zig-zagging path. Perhaps I'm being overly cautious … but this is Baz's life at stake. 

It's some time before we reach the old cottage. I head straight for the hearth at the far end of the room, and collapse onto the wooden chair I'd scrounged up and set there a couple years back. 

'We need a fire,' I say, without moving to build one. I don't think I can do it—I really did a number on my leg back there and the journey did not help things.

**BAZ**

I trail after Snow slowly. The room is barren and dirty, with a makeshift semblance of a kitchen to my right, and a cold, sooty hearth at the far end next to a single chair that Snow is currently occupying.

I come up closer to the hearth and eye it with trepidation. Usually I have someone else to do this for me, but I suppose—under the circumstances—I won't put up a fuss. Snow saved my life tonight, after all, and endangered his own for my sake. I … haven't yet processed this information. 

So I fetch wood from the woodpile set to the side of the hearth, and I crouch to begin stacking it in the manner I've seen my attendants do. I grab some of the small branches for kindling and set it at the base. There is a little tinderbox set on the mantle, and I take out a bit of hemp and the firesteel. And I'm thinking this isn't so bad, really. 

Snow groans behind me. 

'All right?' I ask, as I try to spark the firesteel. (I've never done this before.) A spark drops to the stone below my hands and goes out. I change the angle and try again. 

'Yeah.' Snow sounds pained. 

I do manage to get a spark aimed properly to light the hemp, and it catches onto the kindling. I blow on it gently, and sparks into what appears to be the beginnings of a proper fire. 

There. I'm a quick study. With that settled, I turn to assess Simon Snow. 

He's wriggling out of his leathers, with face twisted in a grimace. His injured leg is extended out straight. 

I realise belatedly that I could've used the fire from the lantern at Snow's feet, instead of the flint. Oh well. 

Snow lifts his green tunic off and tosses it to the side. 

'Snow—' 

He groans. 'Baz.' And then goes for his upper hose. 

I look around the sparse room. Should I give him some privacy? 

'Fuck,' Snow utters. 'Can you … ?' 

He's wincing, and he's only managed to pull his hose down to mid-thigh. Snow's gauzy linen chemise is bunched up to his hip. And there is part of Simon Snow's bare leg. I blink at it for a moment—it's alarmingly bloody. My fangs start to pop out, but I will them away in a hurry. This is not the time. (And I've a belly full of boar blood, I remind myself.) 

'Just … it hurts to bend,' Snow continues. 

'Ah. Right,' I find myself saying, as I move closer to him and crouch at his feet. 

I … am not going to think too hard about this. 

I suppose boots need to go first, so I tug gently at the left one, pulling it off and setting it aside. Then I do the same with the right. 

I set my mouth into a frown as I reach for the top of the hosiery. This should be illegal … But that's not quite right, I'm simply helping an acquaintance with his clothing while he is indisposed. When an attendant assists me with my clothing, it is not at all sexual. This is what I'm telling myself, as I slide Snow's blood-soaked upper-hose down and off his well-muscled and strong legs. 

Anyhow, I assist with the right nether hose, and carefully fold it in a pile to the side with the other. Then I I do the same with the left so that Snow is in only a chemise. He has fine hairs on his tawny skin, the same colour as the bronze curls on his head. He has knobby toes. There is a mole on his left knee.

'That is quite a cut,' I remark, keeping my voice level. And it is—it's ghastly really. Dried blood covers nearly half the man's leg, not to mention the gaping angry-looking wound itself. 

'I know,' Snow says in one breath. 

'What do we do?' 

'There's white wine in the cupboard.' He nods to the right of himself, back by the pseudo-kitchen. 'That'll help clean the wound.' 

I get up, and rummage around for it. I do find a dusty bottle near the back that is wine-shaped, and I take it in hand to yank the cork out. First I give the thing a quick sniff before I bring it over to Snow. It certainly smells like wine. I wonder how old it is. 

'I'll need fresh water, there's a well out back. And there's a sewing kit and clean linen in the drawer over there. Oh, and honey's a good idea to use too.' 

'All right.' 

I fill a barrel at the well, and first wash the dried blood and dirt from hands in it, before filling a fresh one to haul inside (I splash the floor only a little, which only serves to improve the cleanliness, I'm sure). Then I fetch the sewing kit and the linens and the honey pot from the cupboard. 

Snow's got a wet rag, and he's hissing as he rubs at his leg. 

'Let me,' I say, reaching for his rag, and setting it aside. 'Your hands are dirty.' 

I take a fresh linen, and drip water over Snow's leg, then I dab at it gently. And Snow is letting me. 

'Wine,' Snow garbles out. 

I hand it to him, and he takes a long swig, then pours a bunch of it in to the wound. 

'What's next?' I ask. 

'Sewing it up.' Snow takes another long drink. 'Want some?' 

'No, thank you.' I open up the little sewing kit, and take out thick black thread and a needle. 

'Have you done this before?' 

'On fabric, but not on a human leg. Have you?' I thread the needle, and round on him. 

'Yes.' 

'Why am I not surprised.' I puff out my cheeks and eye the wound. 

'It needs to be tight.' 

'Mm.' I'm hovering the needle above his leg. 

'Just do it.' 

I exhale slow. _Pretend it's a bit of leather I'm repairing_ , I tell myself. And then I go for it. Snow tenses, but he does not make a sound. I work as quickly and efficiently as possible, and once I've sewn it up, I tie a knot and snip off the rest of the thread. 

'Looks good,' Snow says, His chest is rising and falling—the only hint of his discomfort. 'Now rub honey on it.' 

I swallow, and reach for the honey pot. I dribble a bit on the stitches first, then gently coax the honey into it with the pad of my index finger. 

'Now wrap with linen.' Snow shifts down in his chair, so that the underside of his thigh is accessible, and he spreads his legs apart farther. 

Sucking in a breath, I do not allow my eye to stray to the bunched-up fabric of Snow's chemise between his legs. 

Instead, I get to work, wrapping clean linen strips around his thigh, and tying them snug in place. 

'There, your first wound cleaning,' Snow says. I look up at him, into those blue eyes, and he flashes me a pained, but crooked smile. 

This is why I never attempted friendship with Simon Snow; it was moments like these I'd hoped to avoid. (And I intend to never forget this night.) 

'You can take the bed,' Snow says, lowering himself down a bit in the wooden chair, splaying his legs out, and shutting his eyes—all this as if he's going to sleep the night on a shoddy chair that looks like it could collapse if you lean your weight on it wrong. 

'Snow, don't be ridiculous—you've been injured. Sleep in a bed.' 

He peeks at me through a half-closed eyelid. 'Nah, suppose I should stay up in case we were followed.' 

I suck in a breath. 'And do you think we were followed?' 

'I told you, no.' I shoot him a dubious look, so he adds, 'Just a precaution.' 

'Snow, _you're injured_.' He shrugs, and I absolutely hate it when he does that—as if a quick upturn of his shoulders is any sort of acceptable response in _any_ circle. 'I must insist.' 

Snow exhales slow. 'Come on, you're a prince. What kind of person would I be if I took the bed?' 

'A reasonable one,' I say, admittedly stubbornly. 'And an obedient one. I have insisted once, Snow, don't make me insist again.' 

He frowns at me. So I frown right back. 

After an extended pause in which we frown at each other, he seems to gauge the seriousness of my request, and says, 'Fine.' 

'Good.' I nod, and make to help him up. 

Snow eyes my arm dubiously, but after a brief hesitation, takes it. I pull him up, and he leans heavily on me. The man is solid—I'll give him that. 

'Where to?' I ask. 

He nods his head back to a narrow set of stairs over his shoulder. It’s in a shadowy corner to the left of the front door. I frown at it. It certainly will not be easy lugging Snow up those steps. 

'I'm okay,' Snow says, wrenching away from me, then immediately toppling towards the chair. I grab him by the biceps before he can completely flatten it. 

Snow is wincing in pain. 'S'pose my leg got a bit stiff there.' 

I sigh. He really is a disaster. 'Come on, I'll help you.' I lift his arm by the wrist, and drape it over my own shoulders, and I wedge a hand firm around his ribs. I suppose I am manhandling him, but it is for his own good. This is not the time to think on it in too much detail, though. 

Slowly, (at a snail's pace really), Snow hobbles, and I attempt to steer and guide the ship, so to speak, towards the wooden stairs disappearing into the dark above.

**SIMON**

This is _embarrassing_.

Baz, whom is a sodding royal prince, whom is dressed impeccably as always, and who smells like the forest in the height of winter (plus something citrusy and spicy)—yeah, that Baz—is helping me (for one), and (for two) is inside my little makeshift home for when I'm out hunting. To say it's nothing fancy is practically an overstatement. 

This is so strange. 

He's snug against me, and I'm leaning heavily on him, which he doesn't seem to mind. Maybe that's a perk of being a vampire. 

We get to the base of the stairs, and I'm not sure I even want to try. But we get right up to the lowest step and I know it's time for me to lift a leg. 

'Start with the good leg,' Baz says. 

Biting back a groan, I do as he advises—however, that puts all my weight on my bad one. 

'Lean on _me_ , not your leg.' 

I huff. _So_ glad Baz knows this much about climbing stairs when you're injured. But I do as he says, and Baz's grip tightens on my waist. It's time to step up, so I haul myself up, shifting weight to my good leg, and Baz comes along with me. We don't really fit—I'm slightly ahead of Baz now, with one shoulder pressing into his chest and the other flush against the wall. 

'Good,' he says. 'Just keep doing that.' 

This will take forever. But fine—if he's determined, then so am I. 

We repeat the same movements, and Baz keeps me steady. He's like a rock. A very lean, cold, strong rock. 

It takes ages to reach the top, but finally we do. 

I push the door open, and wrench away from Baz (because I can certainly walk on flat ground unassisted). Sure, it's pitch-black and I can't see a sodding thing because neither of us remembered the lantern (or it was deemed too difficult to juggle with the state of my leg?), but I know this place like the back of my hand. 

My foot snags on something, and I go flying. 

'Snow—' 

Baz catches me, _again_. I almost want to express my annoyance—but I'm holding back. (Because he's helping me, I suppose.) His hands are snug around my middle, and he pulls me upright with ease. I lean back on his chest as I get my bearings. Baz's chest heaves up and down, but he's steady. 

'I think you are quite determined to make your injury worse,' Baz hisses near my ear. 

'Yes, well …' And I can't really think of a retort. It's been a very long, stressful day. 

Wordlessly, his hands relax from my chest. Now that I think about it, he'd been sort-of hugging me. That’s an odd thought. Now, though, he moves us into the same position we were in back at the stairs, and he leads me to where I know the mattress is on the floor. I feel like an invalid, I feel like a child. 

'How do you know where the bed is,' I mumble under my breath. 

'Vampire senses.' 

'Ah.' Of course. I should ask him more about these vampire traits of his. Perhaps later. 

My foot kicks at the mattress. So we're here, then. The idea of lowering myself down to the floor does not fill me with excitement. 

A sigh comes from Baz. 'Just … just let me help you, all right?' 

'Yeah. All right.' I'd rather just admit defeat before I try, to be honest. 

I feel a pressure on the back of my legs—my thighs. A cold hand wraps around my bare skin there, and another hand clasps me around the waist. And before I can blink, I'm being hefted up like I'm a child, and cradled gently in Baz's arms. He really is strong, I'm thinking, as he lowers me down gently and horizontally. My back and legs hit the soft mattress. 

'Thank you,' I say, because it's the right thing to say. 

I can tell Baz feels awkward, because he merely grumbles a reply, and pulls the blanket up over my chest. 

'Thank you,' I say again, for the blanket this time. 

It smells a bit musty, a bit like straw up here. I'll air out the linens in the morning. Probably. If I can move, anyway. 

'Do vampires sleep?' I ask, because maybe they don't. 

' _Yes_.' He sounds almost offended, but really, how should I know? It's not like I was ever anywhere near his quarters back at the castle. 

But whatever. I'm in bed now, and that's good. I'd really prefer to be asleep, and have this whole day behind me. 

I take a breath and try to relax. 

Ah. I really do feel like it's wrong that I have a bed though, when he's Baz—posh snobby _Prince_ Baz. 'Lie down,' I say, before I can lose the nerve. 

'I beg your pardon?' He's just standing above me, like some awkward person. What was he planning to do—stand over me all night—watch me sleep with his weird vampire super-vision? 

I wince, and wiggle to the side, towards the wall. 'Lie down, there's room.' I know this means a prince sleeping in bed with a lowly huntsman, which is positively unheard of. However, I did save his life today, and there's no place else to sleep. 

'With you.' It ought to be a question, but it doesn't sound like one. 

'Yes. It's that or the hard floor. Or a chair.' 

A heavy sigh comes from him, and I roll my eyes in response (which he may be able to see). 'Fine.' 

I smile, and wriggle around to get myself comfortable. 

I hear shuffling, the moving of fabric, and the undoing of straps, when it dawns on me that Baz is undressing. I'm … I'm not going to focus too hard on that because it's just too strange. 

Soon enough, the mattress dips, and Baz slips under the blanket with me. 

I suck in a breath involuntarily, and squeeze my eyes shut.

**BAZ**

This is ill-advised.

And also the best thing that has ever happened to me. 

I breathe in deep, and will myself to relax. I find I am very conscious of Snow's breaths, next to mine, so I fold my hands over my chest, and shut my eyes tight. 

'Good night,' he says softly, startling me. 

'Good night, Snow.' And I bite back from adding: thank you for saving my life today. 

Remarkably, it isn't very long until I'm fast asleep.

**SIMON**

I wake up groggily, to wooden rafters above my head. I've woken up many times to this sight, but not to a relatively-cold body curled into my side.

I turn my head, and see a mop of fine, tree-scented black hair at my shoulder. I smile a little, and test out if I can move my leg—and I wince as pain shoots up my side. Not miraculously healed overnight, then. 

Ah well. I relax my muscles, and return to staring at the slatted ceiling. 

Interesting that I slept with a vampire last night. And not just any vampire—my adolescent nemesis vampire. The thought makes me smile. This is all rather odd, to say the least. But we're both alive, and safe, and that's … that’s enough for now. 

Baz stirs beside me, and rubs his face against my bicep—as if to wipe the sleep away. He immediately freezes, and I want to laugh because this is so awkward for us, and must be rather embarrassing on his end. Baz slowly squints up at me. 

'Morning,' I say brightly, smiling at his sleepy face. 

He opens his mouth, closes it, then swallows—as if his mouth was too dry to speak. 'It's only because you're warm.' 

I raise an eyebrow, and try to keep from outright laughing. I am smiling though, but trying to bite it back. 

'And I'm cold.' He frowns at me, and edges away with as much dignity as he can muster. 

'All right,' I say, still smiling. 

He looks at my face, grumbles and scowls, and then turns his back to me. 

After a moment, he asks, 'How's your leg?' 

I flip the blanket off from my legs and lift up a bit to look. The stitches have held, thankfully, and nothing looks green or anything, so that's good. 'Hurts if I move it,' I admit, 'but I think it's going to heal up okay.' 

Baz sits up with his back to me, and simply says, 'Good.' He's only wearing his chemise, and it's a bit crooked—exposing an expanse of pale skin between neck and shoulder. He swipes a hand through his messy hair, and it settles a little more neatly. 

God, it’s so strange to see him like this. 

Baz pushes himself up to stand, and I nearly gasp. I can't describe how weird it is to see him, the posh git, in nothing but gauzy white fabric down to mid-thigh. His bare legs are pale, lean, and covered in fine dark hairs. 

I watch him pad bare-foot over to the window across from us, lean on the window frame, and look out. 

The sunlight shines through the delicate fabric of his gauzy chemise, glowing as a halo that accentuates the lines of his body, all his edges, and I want to tear my eyes away—but find I can't.

**BAZ**

So I slept like a cat curled up in a sunbeam—the sunbeam being Simon Snow. Great. Just fucking fabulous.

I sigh, and gaze out the window. Down below, a narrow dirt path leads through overgrown shrubbery to a rocky edge. And beyond the jagged stones lies a completely still, glassy lake surrounded by trees. 

And it's beautiful. Wild and beautiful. 

I can't see any sign of human life, beyond the room I'm in, in this picturesque landscape. Snow and I are alone. 

When I turn from the window, I find Snow staring at me—at someplace around my chest. He blinks, and finds my face. 

I should … I should thank him, properly now. 

I take a few steps toward him, and he turns his head towards the ceiling, breathing in. 

'Baz, for first meal—there is a sack of grain and cask of beer down in the cellar, and well-water out back.' 

I blink at him, trying to comprehend where he's going with all this. 

He flashes me an apologetic smile. 'I think I should rest my leg.' 

Oh. Oh Lord. Now I'm getting what he means—Snow actually intends for me to prepare my own meal. No, _our_ meals. 

'I see,' I say, surveying the room properly now—it's wall-to-wall wood. There is a sizeable old chest in a corner, a straw broom by the stairwell, and the mattress that Snow's is currently lying on. My black clothing is set in a neat pile beside where I slept, stark amongst all the soft browns. I move towards it, though I do wish I'd known about my attempted assassination ahead of time so that I could've packed a few things. 

'Er, I do have some clean clothes in the trunk.' 

I pause, and when I make eye contact with Snow he shrugs against the bed linens. 

Well … my black layers of princely garb would be terribly out of place here, so far from the castle. I turn to assess the trunk. Snow's peasant clothes, then. _When in Rome_. 

I cross the room to unlatch the chest, and push the lid up with a heavy creak. Inside is carefully-folded garments, mostly in browns and greens, along with a few books. 'I didn't know you read.' 

'Penny taught me.' 

'Ah.' My fingers itch to examine the books, to determine just what Simon Snow might have interest in. But I reach for the clothing instead, selecting a pair of plain, well-worn sets of hose, a fresh chemise, and a green cotte. When I turn, Snow is watching me. 

'I won't …' He clears his throat. 'That is to say, I'll give you some privacy.' And turns his head to face the wall. 

I want to laugh at our awkwardness—but I don't. I dress in plain sight of Snow, as he keeps his face carefully tilted to the side. 

It all fits fine—perhaps a bit loosely. I am pleased to find it smells faintly of him—buttery and sweet and earthy, something like a maple tree. 

'You can look, now, Snow,' I say wryly (as if I wouldn't also turn my head in embarrassment, away from a dressing Snow). 

He looks, and gives me a once-over from his low vantage point. A slow smile blossoms on his lips. 'You almost look normal.' 

'Normal?' I nearly huff, but in the end, my response lacks bite. 

'Well, you know. Un-royal.' 

I snort softly. 'All right, Snow.' And, to amuse myself, I bow to him and am pleased to see a blush spread scarlet and blotchy across his cheeks. 'I'll just go and fetch your meal now, milord.' 

Snow is scowling properly. 'Please don't say that.' 

I laugh, and leave him, descending the stairs. 

And, after what feels like several harrowing hours later, Snow winces as he gulps down the gruel that I have prepared. 

I stir mine, and frown down at it—it is admittedly quite lumpy. I spoon a bit into my mouth and grimace as a clump of unmixed powder bursts. I swish it around in my mouth in an attempt to absorb some moisture into it—to make it more palatable. It doesn't really work, but I force myself to swallow it down anyway. 

'Could've stirred it more during the cooking, I think,' Snow says gently. 

I put the bowl down in my lap and glare at him. 

He laughs. 'Sorry. What I meant was: thank you for the meal.' 

I'm not sure how my glares warrant laughs now, but it is a nice change of pace from the snarling we so often did, back and forth. I sigh. 'This was my first attempt at cooking in all the years I've ever lived.' I look at my lumpy grey-white gruel and quietly despair. 

'I know,' he says, and it almost sounds fond. 'It's definitely edible.' 

A short laugh bursts out of me, and when I look up, Snow is smiling crookedly. Without breaking eye contact, he lifts his spoon, and takes another big mouthful. ' _Mm_.' 

I roll my eyes, but I find I'm smiling. 

After we finish eating, I let Snow rest and I take our dishes downstairs to attempt a proper clean-up. I suppose I'm going to have to get used to this ... this attempt at total independence, at being a self-sufficient person. If anything, I think I'm actually finding it all an interesting challenge. I'm surprising myself, but perhaps I shouldn't be, since I've always preferred to excel at the things I try and this experience is no different. Next time though ... next time I will stir the gruel more, and it will be better. Snow will see.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:
> 
> -Water was not commonly drank until about 200 years later. Coffee, tea, and a chocolate drink became popular about 100 years later.  
> All but the poorest people drank mildy-alcoholic drinks with every meal—beer being common in Germany.  
> -Typically, people ate two meals a day: a light meal in the morning/noon, and a heavier one late afternoon/evening.
> 
> Thank you for reading ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things to note: 
> 
> - _ludus latrunculorum_ was originally a two-player military strategy game from as far back as 1300 BCE during the Roman Empire. It resembled chess with a checkerboard and two sets of differently-coloured pieces.  
> So when chess came to Germany, the word for "chess" and "check" translated to "Schach". But "Schach" meant "robbery", so apparently it was more common to refer to the game as "ludus latrunculorum". (Probably sounded more proper than these Christians asking one another, 'Hey, fancy a game of robbery?')
> 
> -"Sehet, welch ein Mensch!" (Behold, what a man!) is from Johannes (John) 19:5  
> -"und Jesus gingen die Augen über" (and Jesus wept) is from Johannes (John) 11:35

  
  


**BAZ**

I wake up in the night and my immediate thought is: _I'm wet_.

It's still dark, but that doesn't mean much for my eyesight. I'm curled into Snow's side, as I often find myself. He doesn’t ever complain, nor does he comment on it, for which I am grateful. But there’s something different about tonight—something wrong with what’s happening right now. 

I lift up onto my elbow, and peer down at Snow's face. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his expression twisted up in anguish. Bronze curls are damp and plastered to his forehead. 

Snow slashes his head to the side, and emits a low moan. My heart rate picks up in an instant—is this merely a nightmare? Or is it something worse? 

My eyes trail down his body as I assess him, and I lower the blanket to find his chemise soaked through with sweat, sticking to his body. 

'Snow,' I whisper, as I place a palm to his forehead just as a maid did once to me when I had fallen ill with a cold as a child. His skin is searing hot, as if I've just placed my hand on a hot pot over the hearth. 'Snow,' I say again, more desperate now. 

He doesn't wake. 

'Snow!' I shake at his shoulders, and he groans. 'Snow,' I choke out. 

If he dies— 

If he dies beside me like this— 

' _Simon_!' 

'Baz,' he says in the tiniest voice, and it's the sweetest thing I've ever heard. He blinks up at me blearily. 

I choke out a wet laugh. 'You're so … _sweaty_. I was worried.' 

'Mm, I think I'm …' Snow speaks so softly as he holds up a shaky hand, and pushes the blanket off himself, towards me. He winces, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

I look down at his uncovered legs, and see that his bandage has yellow staining around where it covers his wound. 'Snow …' He doesn't react. 'Is it your leg, is it …' I decide to untie the bandage in the moment, so I do, and unwrap it from his leg—which is also alarmingly hot where my knuckles brush against it. The bandage is sticky with pus, and when I unwrap the last of it, Snow's wound is red and wet and angry-looking. 'Oh, Simon …' 

His teeth begin to chatter. 'Cold.' 

But he's seems far from it. Nonetheless, I drape the blanket back over him and tuck it over his shoulders. 

'Baz,' he whispers, 'will you go back to Hampshire?' 

I blink at him, because I don't understand where that was coming from. 'Of course not, not while you're … like _this_. And I'm certainly not going to try to hire a carriage while the King may still actively want my head.' 

'Your heart,' Snow corrects faintly. 

'Same difference,' I say through a sigh. Snow is shivering, even underneath the blanket. 'What do I do? What do I do to help you?' 

He smiles, though it looks rather like a wince. ''M a bit thirsty.' 

'Yeah, yeah I can do that.' I fling myself up out of bed, and race downstairs to fill up a mug. I take my time a bit more going back up the stairs, so as not spill. 

Snow hasn't moved from his sweaty nest. 

I kneel beside him and hold out the mug. 'I brought you a drink.' 

He peers up at me. 'Baz, I … I feel … really weak.' 

I try to mask my alarm, and shuffle closer to his head. 'I'll help you,' I say, burrowing a hand underneath Snow's hot, damp neck, and I lift him up gently. With the other hand, I hold the rim of the mug to his lips. 

Snow closes his eyes, and takes small sip after small sip, until he stops without a word. 

'Enough?' I ask. 

'Mm.' 

I … I suppose I'll take that as the affirmative. I lower his head back down gently, and place the mug aside the bed. I stare at him, watch as he shivers slightly, and wish I knew precisely what to do. I touch his forehead again—and it's just as disturbingly hot. 

'Mm, your hands,' Snow says through a sigh. 

My … _cold_ hands. I've an idea. 'I'll be right back, all right?' 

'Mm.' 

This time I go downstairs and straight out the door, round the back, and I pull up a bucket of fresh, cold well water. I heave it back inside, and up the stairs, setting it next to the bed. 

I rummage around in Snow's trunk for some clean linen. I find something suitable, and take it to the bedside, dipping it in the cold water, and squeezing out the excess. Sitting down beside Snow, I take the wet rag to dab at Snow's forehead. 

'Baz,' he whispers. 

I flip the rag to the cooler side, and use it to push back the sweaty plastered curls. I re-wet the rag, then I press it to Snow's cheeks, his mouth and chin, then to his neck. 

''S nice,' he says through a soft sigh. 

I wet the linen again, fold it into a rectangle, and lay it across Snow's forehead. 'What do I do?' I ask again, and I brush my fingers through his curls in what I hope is a comfort. 'What do I do if it gets worse?' If we need a doctor, I'll get a doctor. I don't care if the King finds out, if he comes to finish me off. 

I won't have Simon Snow die for me, not because of a stupid stab wound. 

'Penny …' Snow whispers. His teeth chatter again. 'You walk …' 

'Where do I walk?' 

'East on the lake’s shore … until you come to the … big apple tree. There's a path there, leading south …' 

'Yeah?' 

'Straight to Penny's window.' 

I card my fingers through his hair. 'Should I go?' Truthfully I'd be terrified to leave him, but I may be more terrified to find out what could happen if I stay and do nothing. 

'Penny … can heal.' 

That … well that seals it, doesn't it? 'I'll go then? You'll be all right for a bit?' 

'Mm.' 

'Simon, is that a yes?' 

'Think so.' 

I look at him helplessly, wishing that was more definitive. But I get up anyway, and I say, 'I'll be as fast as possible.' 

He doesn't respond, so I pull on the same clothes I'd worn during the day, and then I get going down the stairs and out the door. It must still be the early hours of the morning—hours still before sunrise—but that doesn't matter. I make my way to the lake easily enough. There's a breeze ruffling my hair, and the lake is oddly quiet. I'd expect something, an owl call perhaps? I'm not sure. But all I hear is the wind gently rustling through the trees. 

The world feels ominous, feels like it’s holding its breath to see what transpires tonight. Well … well I certainly won't let him die. 

I pad over pebbles that shift under my feet, making walking that much more difficult. Still, I press on as swiftly as possible, until I meet a single large apple tree, which must be the one since I don't see anything else like it nearby. I turn southward, and walk towards the treeline. A very small footpath is in fact there, nearly hidden by thick brush on both sides. I move in, winding through tree trunks, and shrubbery. 

By the time I think I'll never get there, that the path must trail all the way through to Italy, I break out into a clearing. A mid-sized house lies directly in front of me, past a large vegetable garden. 

I step up to the window that Snow assured was Bunce's, and rap my knuckle on the wooden shutter. I pause to listen, but I hear nothing inside. I rap again. 'Bunce,' I hiss. 

I straight-up knock next, several times. 'Bunce.' 

The shutter I'm knocking on opens outward. 'There are many Bunces here, be specific.' 

'The Bunce I wish to speak to is the one in which I'm currently addressing,' I say, already annoyed. But I shake my head in an attempt to shake it off. 

She blinks her sleepy eyes at me now. Her hair is in quite a state. 'Basilton, is that you? This is highly irregular.' 

' _Yes_ ,' I agree. 'It's Snow—Simon. He's hurt.' 

Her eyes widen. 'Tell me.' 

'Burning up, sweating, shivering from cold even if his skin is scalding.' 

'What on earth—' 

'Stabbed, he was stabbed the other day. I think the wound has gone … quite bad.' 

' _Fuck_. Wait right there.' She slams the shutter closed in my face. 

I do, I wait, wringing my hands, and shifting my weight around from foot to foot. I hear some shuffling within, then muffled voices. 

_Hurry_ , I'm thinking. 

Finally, a door opens around the bend, and footsteps approach along with a light. Two sets of footsteps. I frown. 

Penelope Bunce and her mother round the corner with lantern in hand. 

'We'll need my mum for this,' Bunce explains, grabbing my wrist. ‘Now lead the way.’ 

So I do, leading back from where I'd come. Mitali Bunce trails behind us, and I have a suspicion she's staring at the back of my head. 

Bunce hisses in my ear, 'I thought you were going back home, that Simon was escorting you there. That's what everyone is saying around the castle. Now you show up here … and Simon's been stabbed?' 

'It's … a long story.' I enter the treeline first, and Bunce trails behind me, with her mother still in tow. 

'Well?' 

My instincts say that the less people who know the truth, the better. But I have already revealed a very significant truth in the past few minutes—that of myself being neither in Hampshire, nor dead. And I suppose she is Snow's closest friend, whom is also on the way to save Snow's life, so I could tell her. I could. 

' _Well_?' she prompts again. 

Pushy, this one. 'Fine. The King ordered Snow to assassinate me on the night of my birthday.' 

' _What_?' 

'It's true.' I push through a bit of overhanging brush, and hold it aside for Bunce as well. 'And, as you can well-guess, Snow didn't murder me.' 

'I can't believe … But the King, he's sort of like a father to you!' 

I scoff. 'Hardly. Anyhow, Snow led me to his hideaway.' 

'A hideaway?’ she echoes, then rapidly switches gears, ‘How did he get stabbed though?' 

I wince, remembering my offer to do Snow's task for him, and the resulting skirmish. 'It was an accident.' 

'Hmm,' Bunce utters thoughtfully. 

We trail through the forest, and finally break out into the shore line near the apple tree. 

'I can't believe he's been hiding out with you,' Bunce admits. 'Don't you hate each other? He could've left you to survive alone, or sent you on back to your home country for real.' 

I clamp my mouth shut tight, and feel my jaw muscles spasm. 

'Interesting,' Bunce says airily, as if I'd said anything, anything at all. 

We make it to Snow's cottage, and I lead them in and up the stairs. I realise my hands are shaking, and I try not to think about the reason of why I'm nervous. We come up to the bedside, and Snow—thank God—is breathing. 

Mitali Bunce turns to me, and says, ‘Wait downstairs.’ 

'But—' The look she gives me then is frightening, so I do as she says. I go back down the stairs, and halfway down I hear the door close tight behind me. I frown, but keep going anyway. 

And now I'm pacing, and trying not to think. I'm probably wearing a groove in the floor. 

It feels like ages until the door opens from upstairs. I hurry to the base of the stairs and steel myself for whatever news awaits. 

It's the younger Bunce. 'Baz, are there some clean linens down there we can use as bandages?' 

'Is he—?' My voice breaks. And I realise now that I may have revealed something about myself, but I can't be concerned with that now. 

'He will be okay.' 

My body deflates—all the tension I'd been holding without realising it melting off. 'Yeah?' I'm already smiling. 

Bunce lifts an eyebrow, but reflects back a smile. 'Yes, Basilton. Now, the linens?' 

'Of course.' 

It’s near sunrise when Mitali and Penelope Bunce gather their things to leave. I offered to make them a meal, but they declined (and maybe that's for the best, judging from my cooking talents of late). 

I walk them out the door and out towards the shoreline. 'I know that you didn't come for me, but regardless, thank you.' 

Mitali shoots me a weary smile, and I'm not sure if it's my imagination but it seems to have a knowing edge to it. 

The younger Bunce pats my arm. 'Anything for Simon.' 

I nod. 'Please don't tell anyone we're …' I trail off, and swallow hard. My life is in their very hands. 

'We won't.' 

Mitali stops by the edge of the lake. 'Remove his bandage once a day, clean the wound with cooled-down boiled water, and reapply honey and a fresh bandage.' 

'Of course.' 

'And have him drink plenty of fluids.' 

'I will.' 

And with that, Mitali Bunce leads her daughter away, arm-in-arm. 

I watch their backs retreat for a moment, and then I race back to Snow. 

I find him right where I left him. He appears to be in a fresh chemise, and lying on fresh bedding. His mouth is slightly agape, and his eyes shut gently. He seems peaceful. 

I sit on the edge of the mattress and watch his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. Soon, I decide to rest for a little while and lie down. Before I know it, I'm fast asleep as well. 

****

**SIMON**

I feel like absolute shite.

I blink my eyes open and groan. There's a steady pressure against my side, and I immediately think _Baz_. And, sure enough, when I look, a mess of black hair meets me. I smile, despite the overall awful feeling that courses through my body. 

Then I remember—the fever, the terrible heat, the terrible cold. I thought I might die, I really did. And then Baz went and got Penny and her mum all on his own. All that, for me. 

He has shown this incredible, caring, attentive side these last days, one that I never would've guessed he had. 

I shut my eyes, and drift off a bit. 

When I open them again, Baz is peering at me curiously. 

'Morning,' I say sleepily. 

And he breaks out into a radiant smile—so radiant my breath catches. Baz never smiles like this. 'Afternoon, actually, Snow,' he says, unable to stop smiling around his words. 'How are you feeling?' 

'Awful, but better. Thanks to you.' 

He licks at his bottom lip, and catches it with an incisor. 'I am glad to see you've improved. You looked like death last night.' 

'Felt like death,' I agree. 

He nods, and gives my body a once over. 'Can you eat?' 

I bite back a wince (because his cooking is seriously the worst—the very worst). 'I think so. Some.' 

He nods. 'I'll be back shortly, then.' 

I watch him retreat in his gauzy chiffon and skinny bare legs and I smile, shutting my eyes again. 

A subtle shake to my shoulder wakes me from a light doze. Baz is sitting over me, with a small, uncertain smile on his face. 

'Can you sit up?' he asks. 

I take stock of my body. 'I think so.' I push my palms into the mattress, and find it's immensely difficult. I flounder, and flop back down. Groaning, I ask, 'What is wrong with me?' 

'You're healing,' Baz says, setting ceramicware on the floor with a thud. 'One more time?' he prompts. 

So, to appease him, I attempt to heft myself up semi-vertical again, and Baz comes in close with his hand around my back, pivots me a bit, and eases me up to lean against the wall. 

'Thanks,' I say, blinking at him. 

He turns his face away, with black hair a curtain, and picks up the dishes near his feet and hands a bowl over. 

I take it into my hands, and I'm surprised—the gruel looks uniform, and there're berries with a golden sheen on the top. 'Honey?' I ask. 

'Yeah.' 

I smile. He tried really hard—it's … well, it's endearing. I take a spoonful, and it's sweet, and smooth. I swallow. 'Wow, Baz, this is actually good.' 

He sends me a poor attempt of an affronted look, but his mouth is twitching, and soon the dam breaks and he's fully smiling. I relax against the wall, and I find myself simply smiling at him. 

'What?' 

I shrug. 'Thank you.' 

He bites at his lower lip. 'You saved my life, Snow. I haven't yet thanked you properly for that.' 

I wonder if his concern has been a product of my saving him—if he has felt like he owes me a debt, and nothing more. 'You have,' I say. 'We've saved each other, now. We're even.' 

He nods. 'Thank you, nonetheless.'

**PENELOPE**

'Penelope,' my mum calls from the kitchen, 'take a gooseberry pie over to Simon and the prince, would you?'

I slip a sheet of parchment into my book to mark my place, and move into the kitchen where mum is arranging freshly baked pies onto the table. I breathe the air in deep—it's warm and smells of fresh pastry and boiled berries. I'm happy to see that she's made a bunch, enough to feed a family of seven and then some. 'Yes, mum.' 

So, once again I take the scenic trek over to the funny little home Simon has managed to make for himself and Baz. I'll have to ask him sometime how on earth he came in possession of it (and why hadn't I known?). 

I knock on the wooden door, and I don't get an answer, so I open it and stick my head in. A fire is crackling in the hearth, but there's no one in sight. 

A peal of laughter floats down from upstairs just then. It's Simon. 

At the foot of the stairs, I call up, 'Simon!' No response. So I add, 'It's Penny, and I'm coming up!' I ascend the steps as loudly as I deem polite in order to announce my uninvited presence, and then rap my knuckles against the door. The voices inside quiet. 'It's Penny!' I call again. 

'Oh! Come in!' Simon calls out, muffled slightly by the door. 

While balancing the pie on one arm, I push the door open, and find Simon sat up on the mattress, grinning at me with face a bit flushed and his back leaning against the wall. With him, sitting on the edge of the bed, is Prince Basilton and what seems to be a small, shy smile on his mouth as his eyes flitter from Simon's face to mine. Huh—I'm not sure I've ever seen him smile. 

'Well hello,' I say to mask my surprise at this happy domestic scene. 

'Hey, Pen,' Simon says brightly. 'Have you brought a pie?' 

'I have,' I say, stepping closer to hand it off to Baz—who seems a bit bewildered to have a pie thrust at him in his little hideout bedroom, but he takes it anyhow and sets it on his lap. 

'Brilliant!' says Simon, already leaning in towards Baz to give it a sniff. At this, Baz frowns slightly at the top of Simon's head. 

'Yes, well, mum's been baking all day. It's gooseberry.' 

'I love gooseberry pie!' 

'You love every kind of pie,' I say. 'More importantly, how are you feeling?' 

Simon straightens, and smiles at me. 'Loads better, thanks to you three. Thanks, Pen. And thank your mum for me? For the pie, and, ah, the healing too. Obviously.' 

'I will.' I glance from Simon to Baz and back. 'Well, I suppose I'll head back, then.' 

Baz stands just as Simon airs a sound of protest. 'I'll walk you.' 

'That's not necessary,' I say, blinking at him. 

'There is a matter I would like to speak to you about,' he says, touching a hand lightly to my lower back, and steering me gently towards the stairs. 

I look back over my shoulder at Simon and find he seems equally perplexed. 'All right.' 

We descend the steps in silence, and Baz sets down the pie by the hearth before turning to escort me out. 

We walk the path to the lakeside in silence, until he says, 'Snow is doing much better.' 

'I'm glad,' I say, unsure of where this is going. I hope he doesn't ask _how_ we healed him. 

'How are things at the castle? Is there any word … any rumours—' 

'No,' I say, shaking my head as we step onto the pebbly shoreline of the lake. 'It's quiet.' 

'So they believe I have returned to Hampshire,' he says, exhaling slow. 

'I believe so. But I'll keep an ear out for the gossip.' I suspect that Simon's safety is just as dependent on this ruse as it is for Baz. 

'Thank you,' he says, and it sounds as if he means it. 'There is one more matter I'd hoped to ask about, but it may be asking too much.' 

I wait for him to continue. Sparing a glance at the side of his head, he seems conflicted on this. 

'If it is safe to do so, I wonder if you might be able to sneak into my quarters in the castle.' Baz glances at me. ' _Only_ if you think it is safe.' 

'Is that all?' Lord, I thought he'd ask me something difficult. 'Of course I can.' I've been wandering the castle largely unseen and ignored for most of my young (and often bored) life. 

He blinks at me. 'If you're certain …' 

'I am.' 

'Well … thank you, Penelope.' 

'Penny is fine.' 

He frowns at me, and carries on as if I hadn't just said that. 'Just some of my clothing, and my violin, would make a huge difference to me.' 

I look down at his body now, and notice that he does seem to be dressed in Simon's clothes—a worn green tunic with white hosiery. I stifle a laugh; it is quite different from his all-black and dare-I-say moody garb. He looks practically like a huntsman himself (though a bit on the weedy-side) rather than a surly prince. 'All right,' I eventually say through a smile. 

He sighs, but does not comment on my amusement. 'Thank you. My violin should be lying on the windowsill.'

**SIMON**

A few days pass by and I'm definitely getting stronger. I mean, I do get a bit winded hobbling around the cottage sometimes. And I still sleep for like half a day each night. But my leg is healing up, and I think the stitches can come out soon.

It's evening, and the bedroom is bathed in soft lantern light. We've just eaten (Baz's cooking is definitely improving). I push my bowl away, and he takes it. I sort of feel guilty that he has to do everything, but at the same time I find it rather nice. 

I lean back against the wall, and smile at him. 'Thank you for the meal.' 

He darts an eye at me as he stacks the dishes into a neat pile. 'You're welcome, Snow.' 

And I can only smile, as I watch him take everything into his arms, and carry them down the steps for washing. 

While I'm alone, my eyes fall onto the violin case balancing in the corner. 

Baz returns up the steps, and I ask, 'Will you play a bit?' I nod towards the case, and Baz follows my eyes. 

Baz stares at the case for a long moment, before turning back to me. He worries his bottom lip with a pointed incisor, in a look that I can only describe as uncertainty. 

'Forget it,' I say in a hurry. He's obviously not comfortable with the idea. 

'No, I … I can—I could play. It's only that … well, I don't normally play for others.' 

I nod. 'If you don't want to, really it's _fine_ —' 

'No, I will,' he says, quite decidedly now, and makes his way over to his violin case. He kneels down next to it to unlatch it and I watch as he takes out the bow and a little box of something. He uses the latter to wipe something over the strings. 

Next he carefully lifts out the instrument and it's quite shiny—really very pretty. I've never seen it this close. He straightens up and turns to face my general direction, but his eyes are unfocussed, and aimed toward the wall. He tucks it under his chin, and gives a few experimental swipes to it with his bow, filling the room with loud, long notes. Then he fiddles a bit with some knobs at the end. 

I lean back against the wall, and just watch. It's fascinating to see because it's one thing (out of many things, I'm sure) I know nothing about. 

Apparently satisfied with his knob-twiddling, Baz sucks in a deep breath, arranges his fingers over the long skinny part at the end, and then it begins. 

The song starts slow, with long drawn-out notes. And it's fascinating to watch his nimble fingers shift on the strings, floating up the neck of the instrument with practiced ease. 

His gaze is still unfocussed, but his eyebrows come closer together, making a vertical wrinkle form at the base of his forehead. The tune speeds up—and his fingers are flitting all over, with his bow arm making wide, frantic movements. 

And I've forgotten to breathe as the beautiful melody fills each corner of the room. 

Baz's body jerks and flows with every sweeping gesture, as if he's become one with the instrument—the song. His eyelids flutter closed as the pretty melody shifts gradually into something sullen, something slower. 

And it sounds so sad all of a sudden. It sounds like … like longing. 

My chest tightens as I let my own eyes close. There's so much there, so much weaved into the music that I don't know how to define it. It's like … well, maybe it's like Baz's heart. 

It's so, so sad. There's a lump in my throat. I just want to—to make it better somehow. To bring it back to the light, merry tune from the start. 

A long note plays, and then it stops. I open my eyes to find Baz lowering his violin and his bow. 

His eyes flit to mine, then away. 'Well, there you are.' 

I blink at him for a moment. I don't know if I can find the right words. 'You're amazing, Baz.' 

A soft smile grows on his mouth as he turns away from me to put the violin back in its case. But I'd seen it—the smile. 'I am merely adequate, or so my tutor tells me. Told me.' 

'Bollocks. You're brilliant.' 

He laughs under his breath. 'Well, thank you, Snow.' He closes the case, and sets it back to rest against the wall. 

'But it sounded really …' 

'Really what?' 

'Sad,' I admit. 

Baz lifts up his tunic, as sets it neatly with his other clothing. 'Did it?' he remarks softly. 

Baz pushes down his hosiery, and steps out of it. He comes to the bed, nudges my legs aside, and crawls in. He's on his stomach under the blanket, with face turned toward me. 

'Beautiful, though,' I add. 

His eyes are closed, but he's smiling. 

I smile back even though he's not looking and I shift on the bed in order to lie down next to him. Part of me wants to pull him in close, so that he gets my heat and I get his cool, and so that we don't need to wait for it to happen naturally—we could gravitate together on purpose, because it's going to happen anyway. 

But I'm not sure I'm feeling that daring. Instead, I inch in closer to him, but not enough to touch. Our faces are facing one another, and he's still got that soft smile on his mouth. 

'Will you play for me again? Maybe every evening before bed?' I ask softly, since there's no need to be loud with how close we are. 

'If you wish,' he says lightly. His eyes open—and they seem so bright to me, so … so _him_ , if that makes any sense. He smiles, then rolls away from me, extinguishing the lantern by the bed. And then I'm happy that he rolls back into place right next to me, facing me. 'Good night, Snow.' 

'Good night, Baz.'

**BAZ**

After several days of Snow hobbling around the cottage against my explicit advice, he announces that he's better now and it's time to celebrate.

I cast him a disbelieving glance over my shoulder as I stir the soup in the hearth. 'Go back to bed.' 

He laughs. 'God, Baz. Will you look at me? Properly?' 

Sighing, I remove the spoon from the pot and turn to face him. 

'Look,' Snow says, as he attempts to demonstrate his mobility by performing some sort of low-lunge walk. 'See?' He's steadily moving towards me as he keeps dropping his arse low towards the floor. 'I'm not falling over at all,' he says happily and straightens up. 'I'm good as new.' 

I raise an eyebrow. 

'Oh come off it.' 

I huff, and it might be a laugh under my breath. 'And what, pray, would celebrating entail?' 

'You're not going to compliment my healing?' 

Oh Lord. 'Your healing ability appears to be functional. Congratulations, you can walk again.' 

Snow surprises me by smiling genuinely, and saying, 'Thank you.' Before I can tell him I wasn't really complimenting him, he adds, 'Wait here, I'll get what we need.' 

As I raise an eyebrow at him again, he grins and turns to head up the stairs. So I … I return to the soup. It's steaming slightly, and giving off a pleasant smell. I dip the spoon back in and give it a stir. It's definitely too watery. 

Snow's heavy footsteps sound on the steps. 'You can quit babying the soup, Baz. It'll need to simmer a few hours, so just let it rest.' 

I frown, and spin to face him. Snow is bright-eyed and cheerful, holding an item in each hand. 

'What have you got there?' I'm not certain I want to know what Snow's idea of celebrating is. If it's sparring or hunting or some sort of hyper-masculine activity as such, then I'm not interested. 

He steps closer to me and holds up his arms. 'I've a twenty-year-old brandy I'd stashed for a special occasion. And, well, ludus latrunculorum.' Snow shrugs a bit at that, suddenly seemingly unsure. 'How's that?' 

Well … this was certainly not what I was expecting. I've never imagined Simon Snow playing ludus latrunculorum, and there's certainly something immensely appealing about the idea. Potentially dangerously appealing. 'Yes.' 

Snow grins at me, and ushers me out the door into the afternoon sunshine. He leads me over to a tree stump and begins assembling the game board atop it. 

'Suppose we'll be sitting on the ground, then?' I ask. 

'You can fetch something soft to sit on if you prefer,' Snow says without looking up. He's arranging all the pieces perfectly—he's a marvel. 

'All right.'

**SIMON**

I'm all set up once Baz returns with folded blankets to set on the ground. He lowers slowly in order to sit cross-legged and grimaces.

'Never sat on the ground, have you?' I ask casually, trying to suppress a laugh. 

Baz grumbles, and doesn't answer. 'Did Bunce teach you to play?' 

'No, I learned it in a book.' 

He pinches his mouth tight, and his eyes drift down to the board. 

'Your move.' 

Baz moves a piece, and I move a piece. He seems thrown off already by the speed of my move. 

'Ah, almost forgot the brandy,' I say, scooping the bottle up from beside my hip and wedging the cork out with my teeth. 

Baz frowns at me. 'That can't be good for your teeth.' 

I shrug, and offer him the bottle first. 

'I … don't often drink.' 

'We're celebrating,' I reiterate. 

His mouth is back to pinched, but he snatches the bottle out from my hand and takes a swig. His face twists up as he swallows, and immediately he begins coughing. 

I try not to laugh—I really do. 'I'll get mugs,' I say. 'That'll make it easier for you to sip it, yeah? And gives you time to think of your next move.' 

Baz glowers at me as I rise to my feet.

**BAZ**

Okay. The brandy is admittedly better once I take only a small amount into my mouth at a time. And it feels warm on the way down, settling comfortably in my stomach. It's really quite nice. 

Snow and I have taken approximately half of each other's pieces from the board. And I'm impressed—I didn't know he'd be so capable at something that didn't require the use of his muscles. 

And there's something about his expression arranged in contemplation, his fingers so carefully and precisely moving the pieces, and the fact that he's very clearly demonstrating a keen sense of reasoning and intellect that I wasn't quite privy to that is really … 

Well—it's doing something to me. 

'What's it like being a vampire?' Snow asks as he moves a piece, taking one of mine. 

I frown at the board. 'Fuck off, Snow.' 

Snow laughs as if I made a joke. 'Come on, I really want to know. Can you run really fast or something? Can you turn into a bat and fly away?' 

I move a piece—I think I've a plan. 'No, that's ridiculous.' 

'Well you can see in the dark, yeah?' He makes a move—and it's just where I'd hoped he'd go. 

'Yes.' 

'What else?' 

I sigh as I move my game piece. 'I'm somewhat stronger, I s'pose. I hear better, smell better. Direct sunlight feels a bit like burning.' 

Snow squints up at the cloudy blue sky, like he hadn't been aware of the weather at all until now. 

'I have to drink blood to live.' 

'Do you have to eat food? I mean, I know you eat it, obviously. But do you have to?' He takes his turn, and it couldn't be more ideal for me. He really doesn't see what I'm planning. 

'Yes, Snow.' I move my piece. 'And now I believe I've won.' 

He blinks down at the board. ' _Oh_. You distracted me.' 

'I did no such thing.' 

His eyes lift to meet mine in challenge—it's the same look he has when he's goading me into sparring with him. 'Again.' 

I laugh. 'Fine.' And then we set the pieces back up to starting position, together. 

'Are you immortal?' 

A laugh bursts out of me, and then I realise he’s serious. 'Well I don't think so,' I say, raking my fingers through my hair. 'I still age, don't I?' 

'Mm,' he hums softly. ‘Well, it's pretty cool.' 

'No it isn't,' I say, and I’m rather aghast about him thinking so, really. 

He shoots me a smile, and moves a board piece. ‘I won’t let you distract me this time.’

**SIMON**

I think Baz is the one who is distracted. He keeps sipping from his mug of brandy and I notice it's bringing out the barest hint of pink on his face—from cheekbone to jaw in blotchy c-shapes on his skin. You wouldn't notice it if you weren't right up next to him, which, of course, I am.

I keep being surprised by him—by Baz—wearing my clothes, cooking the meals, doing all the washing up. And now—now he's getting a bit drunk with me on the ground with a tree stump and an old board game between us. It's … really great, really. Really quite nice. Yeah … 

Hmm. Maybe I'm distracted. 

I take a deep swig of my brandy, and decide to concentrate on the board. I have to beat him at least once. 

The warm alcohol settles comfortably in my stomach as I formulate a strategy.

**BAZ**

'That's the game,' Snow says with an air of triumph, slumping back to shoot me a crooked grin.

Ah. Maybe I was distracted. I kept watching Snow's hands. They're nice hands—strong and deliberate. Tawny skin, several moles, rough stubby fingernails. But the fingers themselves— 

Snow knocks the rest of his brandy back, and slams the mug on the table. ‘I’m going to go chop some wood.’ 

A laugh bursts out of me. ‘What?’ That statement seemed so absolutely out of nowhere. 

Grumbling, Snow rises to his feet, swaying a little before he finds his balance. Oh—how much have we drank? ‘I have to chop wood right now.’ 

‘You’re an idiot,’ I say with a laugh in my voice. (And I mean those words fondly, now.) ‘You’re drunk.’ (I think _I_ might be drunk.) 

‘No,’ he says both pointedly _and_ by actually pointing a finger at me. ‘I am a _man_.’ 

I raise my hands in surrender. ‘Oh, an idiot _man_. Sorry, that’s right—I must've forgotten.’ 

He splutters, and his eyebrows wrinkle up so close together I think they’ll stick. But he can’t seem to come up with a comeback and I, ever the gentleman, simply smile. 

‘Just watch me.’ It sounds like a threat, and I laugh. 

I seem to be unable to keep a goofy grin off my face, but even I know that use of an axe is ill-advised under the influence of alcohol. ‘Snow … what exactly are you playing at?’ 

'Watch me!' 

I do watch him stumble towards the stump at the back of the cottage, so I climb to my feet in order to traipse after him. But first I grab the bottle of brandy by the neck. 

As soon as I've stood up, though, the alcohol is suddenly quite apparent—more so than before. I feel quite good, actually. Bit floaty, really. 

'Snow?' I call out, as I head off after him, with brandy bottle swinging at my side. 

He rounds a corner with an axe, and sets it down against the stump—with the axe-y part downwards. 

'Snow, I'm obliged to remind you you've already been stabbed once recently.' 

'I could chop wood in my sleep,' he says, as he hoists a heavy cross-section of a tree into his arms over from the pile at the treeline, and drops it heavily atop the tree stump. Snow picks up the axe by the handle, and glances my way. 'Keep back.' 

Oh Lord. I back up several metres. 'How's this?' 

He's raised the axe up over his shoulder, and smirks at me. 'Good. Now watch.' 

'I—' _don't think this is a very good idea_ is lost on account of Snow swinging the axe in a perfect arc towards the wood. A good-sized piece is knocked clean off. Snow kicks at the remaining piece to centre it on the stump. 

He lifts the axe again, and it falls—once again in a perfect arc—like it's easy. Another piece tumbles off. 

Snow wipes his forehead with his tunic sleeve, then pauses and looks at the sleeve like it's telling him something. He sets the axe down again to lean against the stump. 

'Are you done?' I call out. 

Seemingly in response, Snow lifts his tunic and chemise clean off, and tosses them aside. And … and my mouth is agape. 

Left in only his hosiery and shoes, Snow lifts up the axe again, and takes another smooth swing. I don't think I'm worried anymore, and I'm not going to try to stop him. 

Snow's torso is the same golden tawny colour as his face and hands (and why wouldn't it be?), dotted with the occasional mole. His muscles bulge and shift as he moves, and, thanks to my vampire vision (which I have never been as thankful for as I am during this very moment), I am watching a trickle of sweat drip down the centre of Snow's chiselled chest. Simon Snow is art—a living sculpture. 

His _arms_ —

And the hosiery is another story altogether. 

I take a long drag of brandy, and swallow. 

Snow keeps chopping, as muscles swell and flex with every movement. And once he's done this cross-section of tree, he piles up all the pieces neatly against the side of the cottage. Next he hefts another huge bit of wood over. 

Before picking up the axe again, he raises his arms out and calls to me, 'Well—idiot or _man_?' A bronze curl is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his chest heaves up and down as he waits for my answer. 

And what a stupid question. I roll my eyes, and I say, ‘ **Sehet, welch ein Mensch!** ’ _Behold, what a man!_ (What a man that is, indeed.) 

Simon Snow appears to glow golden and yellow, as if lit from within. Quite literally. I rub at my eyes, but that only seems to make him glow brighter. 'Snow,' I say, with uncertainty. 

He's picked up the axe, and has made another clean swing. 

Whatever this is, I don't think the brandy is causing it. I can't be _that_ drunk. 

' _Snow_ ,' I say louder, before he can swing the axe again. 

'Mm?' 

'You seem to be …' 

'What's that?' He drops the axe against the tree stump, and walks over to me. 

I blink at him, he looks like some sort of angel, or sunbeam. 'Snow …' 

' _Baz_ ,' he mocks good-naturedly, with a lopsided grin, coming up to me now—about a metre away. 

'Look at yourself … are you seeing that too?' 

He shoots me a quizzical look, then looks down at himself. 'Baz ...' and this time he sounds awed. I'm pretty sure he should be horrified. He looks up at me with glittering eyes. 'Baz, you're _magic_.' 

I blink at him dumbly. 'No, I'm not.' 

'I thought that thing you just said sounded like a spell.' He looks positively _excited_ , when I think he should be much more concerned about the state he's in. 'What was that from, that thing you said about me being a man?' 

I feel my cheeks heat at the reminder (yes, I'm aware it was mere moments ago.) 'Sehet, welch ein Mensch? I suppose it's a bible verse.' 

'Ah, that's why. Penny always says to be careful about quoting the bible, it's just about all everyone knows, literature-wise.' 

'Penny says,' I echo. This is … this is all preposterous. 

Snow straightens, and his expression sobers. 'Oh. S'pose I shouldn't've said that.' Then he brightens again. 'But now that we know you're both magic, you're on the same side.' 

'Same side?' I feel … ill. 

'The side of magic,' he adds cheerfully. 

'This is too much, I need to sit down.' So I do, right on the dirt beneath me. 

'Baz, this is so cool!' Snow reiterates from above my head. 

I look up, and that was a mistake—because I'm met with the strong shape of him, up close, parts of him hidden only by thin layer of hosiery and a yellow aura. I groan, and bury my face in my hands. One thing to freak out about at a time, I vow. 

Snow lowers to the ground in front of me, crossing his legs. 

'What do we do about your glowing?' I ask through my fingers. In my mind, that's the most pressing issue. He certainly is easy to "behold" during this shining state. I'm sure all the birds in the sky are beholding him. 

'Oh, I'm not bothered.' 

I lower my hands to my lap and fix him with a glare. 'How can you possibly _not_ be bothered? You're a bloody _beacon_ Snow, and if someone spots you from the castle—' 

Snow frowns, but says, 'It'll wear off. I promise. Penny's first accidental spell lasted a few minutes.' 

I blink at him, and actually find I might be relieved. I near-whisper, 'Yeah? What happened?' 

He smiles, like he's got a funny story for me. 'She'd just turned eighteen—' 

'Turned eighteen?' 

'Yeah, that's when you're magic comes.' He says it like it's obvious. 'So, yeah, she'd been fighting with her older brother Premal. Oh, and you usually have to have a strong emotion to make accidental magic happen.' He pauses, and a grin envelops his face. 'You must've really thought me a man, huh?' 

I roll my eyes, but feel my face heating up again, despite my preference. 'You technically are one.' 

'Uh huh.' He's still grinning. 

'You were saying?' I bite out. 

'Right. So they were fighting—they're always fighting, really—and Premal stopped to complain to their mum that Penny was bullying him. And Penny said—rather sarcastically, mind you—"und Jesus gingen die Augen über". _Bible_ , again, Baz—' (I grunt, I've got the message already.) '—and low and behold, Premal's eyes gushed tears for forty-five minutes. They had to keep giving him drinks so he wouldn't dry out.' 

'I think you mean dehydrate.' 

Snow shrugged. 'Anyway, Penny tells the story better, I guess. She does a great impression of Premal.' 

'I see.' So forty-five minutes. All right. I suppose I feel better about that issue. Now, the next matter to freak out about: _magic_. Me. Magic me. 

'So I can do magic,' I say flatly. 

'Yeah, isn't it awesome?' 

I frown. 'I'm a magic _vampire_.' As if being a vampire weren't enough. 

'Yeah!' 

I groan loudly, and Snow laughs—laughs at my anguish. Well I'm glad he's finding this so wonderful. I'm a _homosexual_ magic vampire. What else can I add to my repertoire? Isn't one of those significant enough to be a social pariah? Well now I'm a pariah threefold. Shall we go for fourfold? Maybe I can contract leprosy. 

'Baz, you can do magic,' Snow says with delight. 'You can make things happen—magical things, wonderful things.' 

I grumble. I don't even have the strength to point out that he said that by having magic I can make "magical things" happen. 

'It'll be awesome, you'll see,' Snow continues. 'I'll have you talk to Penny, she can teach you.' 

Penelope Bunce, teaching _me_ —why am I not thrilled?

**SIMON**

Baz looks so dejected I want to laugh and wrap my arms around him. He's all hunched over, with a frown permanently affixed to his face, and black hair all in his eyes.

He's _moping_ , when he doesn't realise yet that this is a good thing. I've seen what Penny can do, what her mum can do. Having magic is dead useful—you can get so much done with minimal effort. 

Baz sighs heavily, as his shoulders slump down even more. 

'Ah come on,' I say. 'Let's have a swim, yeah? I'm all sweaty and I think the water will do you some good.' 

He looks up at me dubiously. ' _Swim_?' As if the very word tasted bitter on his tongue—so bloody dramatic. 'Pitchs do not swim.' 

It's obvious: he doesn't know how. 'Well you don't have to _swim_ -swim, just come into the water and stand.' Baz is still grimacing. 'How were you expecting to bathe? Or were you not?' 

Baz blinks at that. 'You don't have … a bath.' I'm watching it dawn on him in mild horror. 'I have to bathe in a …' He twists his head round towards the lake. 'A natural body of water.' He swallows. 

I laugh—and I don't know why his antics make me laugh so much now, when I used to be so annoyed by his prissy, holier-than-thou attitude. I suppose saving someone's life changes things ... I think we might be proper friends now. 

'Exactly,' I say as I pull myself up to stand and extend a shining hand out for him to grasp. 

He eyes it with trepidation, then takes it. I lift him with ease, and he mutters, 'At least the spell didn't make your skin burning hot.' 

I just smile, as I lead him down the dirt path, past the rocky bits, to the pebbly shoreline. We stand there together, looking out at the calm lake—still like glass. It reflects the trees at the far shore, the blue sky, the white, fluffy clouds. It's a nice day for a swim. 

Baz takes a long drink from the brandy bottle. I'd completely forgotten about it, so I wrench it from his fingers and take a long pull myself. The liquid burns hot as it goes down, settling warm and cosy in my stomach. 

What a brilliant day. 

I shove the bottle back in Baz's hands—he's glaring at the lake like it’s offended his mother—and I push my hose down to my feet, and step out of my shoes.

**BAZ**

If anything could push me over the edge—it's Snow's bare, glowing-yellow arse as he's wading into the water. That’s it. Now I’m laughing like a deranged fool (which I very-much am), before I take another drink of brandy, then shove the bottle deep into the bed of pebbles so that it won't topple.

Okay. Nothing to it than to undress now, as I watch Snow's glowing body dive underneath the surface. 

I've never been in natural water before and I'm not quite sure what to expect, actually. 

My tunic and chemise are off, and in a folded pile at my feet. 

'Come on! It's so refreshing,' Snow calls, as he splashes around. 

Taking a breath, I push my upper and nether-hose down, and toe out of my shoes. I cover myself with my hands to protect my modesty, and take a few tentative steps forward. 

I'm eyeing the waterline with distrust. Beyond, I can make out the lake floor through the murky water. And I wonder if this hygienic. Movement catches my eye, and I startle. 

'Snow, what manner of creature lurks beneath these depths?' 

He laughs, again, breathy and short. 'I don't know, fish?' 

When I shoot him a look, Snow is submerged below the shoulders, but his ridiculous glow is visible through the water. He's looking at my face, and only my face, with a tight smile. 

'How big are the fish?' 

Snow looks like he's holding back another laugh. 'I don't know, Baz. Maybe the biggest would be half an arm's length.' 

I make a face. 

'Just come in! I'm tired of looking at your pale arse!' 

'You cannot see my arse from this vantage.' Besides, he's still looking at my face. Nevertheless, I step my feet in—and it's _cold_. 'Snow, it's cold.' 

'Your body will adjust.' Then he seems to think about it, likely remembering how I already run cold. 'Probably.' 

'"Probably", great.' Oh whatever, I'm getting a bit tired of standing out here in the nude myself. So I start walking, and struggle to ignore how off-putting this is. The water keeps on being cold, and the pebbles shifting under my feet feel almost slimy. It's all so very wet, and I don't like not knowing what's in there. Maybe something is watching me—some creature. 'If something attacks me, Snow, will you gallantly wrestle it away from me?' 

'You are so bloody dramatic,' he says, and there's a laugh still present in his tone. ' _Yes_ , you wanker. I didn't save you just to watch you get drowned by a pike.' 

I frown at him. 'How big is a pike? And do they have teeth?' I'm getting into hip-deep territory now, and I wince as the cold water touches my most sensitive of parts. 

'Er, I'm not sure if I should lie to you or not.' (' _Snow_ ,' I say.) 'And they're forty to fifty centimetres or so.' 

I'm in past my navel now, so I relax my hands, and swirl them around in the water a bit. 'Just tell me,' I say. 

He exhales. 'Yes, pikes have teeth. But they don't bite people, unless you go sticking fingers into their mouths.' 

All right. I appreciate his honesty. 

I walk right up to Snow, and he smiles at me. 'You actually did it.' 

'You didn't think I would?' 

He shrugs. 'I wondered.' The smile turns cheeky. 'You would've stunk something else after a full month here.' 

I pinch my lips at him. 'I could've used well water. I can _still_ use well water.' I look around. 'Not sold on this yet.' 

'Ah, you've just gotten started, give it a minute.' 

I frown, and suddenly something brushes against my leg, and I emit a very undignified screech. I leap away from whatever it was, which happens to take me closer to Snow. 

Snow laughs and grabs hold of me. 

' _Snow_ , something has _brushed_ against my _leg_.' 

'Seaweed, most likely,' he says through a laugh. 'You're fine, I've got you.' 

' _Snow_.' I am _this close_ to racing out of this godforsaken lake. 

' _Baz_ ,' he says cheerfully. 'It's just a plant. See?' Snow leads me against my will closer to the _thing_ , and releases one of his hands from me in order to fish around for it underneath the surface. 'Ah. There. Yep, definitely a plant. Come on, give me your hand.' 

'Not a chance,' I say, yanking my arm out of his grasp, and putting both behind my back. 

He laughs. 'Come on, you'll see it's completely harmless, and you won't be scared anymore.' 

'Scared? I am not _scared_.' 

He raises an eyebrow. 'What are you, then?' 

'I am …' Okay, I have to think about this for a moment. 'I am averse to underwater tickly things that invade my personal space without my permission.' 

He laughs, and launches his body straight at me. I let out an affronted, yet dignified sound, and attempt to leap away from him. Splashes erupt around us and he catches me. _Snow_ does not have a very good concept of personal space. 

He's laughing, and, somehow, I find I am too. 

Our knees knock together, and he manages to grasps my hand, as skin brushes against skin. 'Come _on_.' 

I grumble, as he leads me hand-in-hand back to the space by the plant. He outstretches our joint hands toward it, and guides the plant against the back of my hand with his free one. 

'See?' 

It does feel like a plant. Like a particularly wet and slimy plant, though. I frown. He squeezes my hand and turns it palm out. I am being completely manhandled, and a part of me does not actually mind. He draws the plant into my palm, with fingertips that graze mine gently. 

I make a show out of touching the plant, but really I'm trying to get his fingertips to brush against me more. And they do, just a little. 

I realise he's watching my face, so I say, 'I contend that it is, indeed, a plant.' 

He smiles, and, unfortunately, removes his palm from mine, and his hand from my bicep. 'Good. Now you can enjoy the water properly.' 

'Can I now?' I raise an eyebrow. 

'Wet your hair at least, you're getting grimy.' 

I am affronted—absolutely affronted. 'I beg your pardon?' 

He grins, and ducks right under the water's surface. I blink at the glowing figure under the water. 

Hands wrap around my wrists, and he tugs downwards. _Oh Lord_ , I'm thinking, as I'm being pulled under. 

He shoots up, just as my chin breaches the surface, splashing at my face. He's grinning. 'Did I scare you?' 

I roll my eyes, and splash him. He sputters, laughing, and splashes me right back. 

My head is _soaked_ , but I keep splashing anyway. 

He tackles me without warning, and we both go under, with knees knocking, and arms battling for dominance, lake-cooled skin brushing against lake-cooled skin. I get a nose full of water, and then I'm clawing away from Snow, spluttering up to the surface. 

Snow breaks the surface a moment later, and laughs as I blow water out of my nose, coughing. 

'You aren't supposed to breathe-in underwater. Or are you a magic vampire mermaid?' 

I shoot him a look that would wilt a flower, and he simply laughs. I realise that I have water still spilling out my nose, and I wipe it off. This man will be the death of me—I'm not sure of how much more of this nude playfulness I can handle. He keeps laughing and smiling and reaching for me to _touch_ me. It's … it's a lot. 

He smiles. 'Want me to teach you how to swim?' 

'I'm not sure I'll ever need that particular skill, Snow.' 

He shrugs. 'You never know, you might.' 

'I think this has already been a significant introduction. Perhaps another time.' 

'Fair enough.' 

I take a breath. 'I think I'll get out and get dried off.' 

'Yeah, all right.' 

I turn to walk towards the shore, and find he's walking with me. We walk right out of the water together, and I am determined to not look at him, no matter how much I may want to. 

'Should've brought something to dry off with,' he mutters. 

I attempt to squeeze the liquid out of my hair, and it simply trails down my back in cold streams. 'Yes,' I agree with him. So now we are in the nude, in the naked air. I pick up my discarded clothing from the pebbly shore, and hold the pile in front my privates in one hand. I do not look to see if Snow is doing the same. I remember the brandy bottle, and pick it up, and notice that Snow's hose and shoes are still on the ground. 

Snow plops down on the stones, and sighs happily. 'This is a nice day.' 

I glance at him now, and find him sat with knees up in the air, and leaning back on his palms. He is still incredibly yellow. 

'You're yellow.' 

He laughs out towards the lake. 'I don't mind.' 

'I do,' I say, and lower myself down to sit beside him. 'Not if you're stuck like this.' 

'If I glow, I glow.' 

'At night, you'll become a beacon, announcing to the world "I am here". That is not so useful when one is hiding from an assassin. A Kingly assassin, mind you. That's got to be the worst kind.' 

He smiles. 

And we sit in comfortable silence, looking out at the wild as we wait to dry off naturally.

**SIMON**

'Snow,' Baz says, lowering his violin and peering out the window from the kitchen area. 'The sun is setting, and you're still glowing like a beacon.' 

I shrug, and take a bite of leftover bread. 

He turns to me. 'You are remarkably nonchalant about this. What if you glow for the rest of your life? How could you hunt?' 

I laugh. 'I sincerely doubt it'll come to that. But yeah, I guess you'd have to hunt for me, huh? Maybe that's a good idea, actually. You could have a system—drain one animal, and bring one back for eating. That's like killing two birds with one stone, yeah?' 

He scoffs. 'Hardly. As soon as I'd kill one, the rest would be long gone in fear.' 

'Hmm. Well, I'm sure there's a work-around.' 

Baz sets his violin down and makes a lap of the room—I can tell he's thinking too much. 'We should cover the windows.' 

'If you insist.' Honestly I think he's overreacting. We are so far from civilisation right now. Nevertheless, I jam the rest of the bread in my mouth, and ignore the look I receive at that, and go search for something dark we can hang. 

In the end it's Baz's thick black tunics that work. His dark, brooding disdain for cheerful colours helps us. We affix them to the windows, and now it's just about time we sleep. 

I make to climb into the bed, and Baz hesitates in the centre of the room. 'All right?' I ask over my shoulder. 

'It's just … how can I sleep with a human-sized firefly in my bed?' 

I laugh. 'Well I suppose that's simple … we can just cover up your eyes.' I move over to the corner with Baz's neat pile of dark clothing and extract a black nether-hose. 'Here,' I say, coming up to him. 

He eyes me dubiously, and I just smile back at him, bringing the hose up to eye level. I hold the foot of one end flat against the side of Baz's head, and my fingertips brush against the silky strands of his hair. I use the other hand to carefully and gently wrap it all around Baz's eyes. He sucks in a long breath, but let's me work without moving in the slightest. 

With it all wrapped, I tie the ends together in a knot—careful not to snag any of Baz's hair in it. 

I stand back, and observe my work. It looks good—his eyes seem completely covered. 'How is it?' 

'Better,' he says quietly. 'But now I cannot see at all.' 

I laugh under my breath. 'Good. That was rather the point, wasn't it?' I reach for his cold fingers, and he flinches. 'It's all right,' I say, and his hand seems to relax in mine. I move to lead him closer to the bed, and he shuffles his feet after me. 'Almost there.' 

We reach the edge of the bed, and he hesitates, before crouching low, and climbing in. I extinguish the lantern that we never needed in the first place, and I climb in. I climb over Baz's body, and settle into my spot. 

Closing my eyes, I find I'm smiling, and it's kind of hard to stop. Today was a really nice day … from drinking and playing games, to discovering Baz’s magic, and that swim and the time sitting by the shore, just chatting idly between periods of comfortable silence as we waited to dry off. 

Soon Baz's breaths level out, and I'm quite sure he's asleep. Within moments, he wriggles himself closer to me, and he's uttering sleepy nonsense under his breath until his cheek comes to rest gently on my bicep. As soon as he's touching me, he seems to settle. 

Yeah … a really lovely day. 

And, in the morning, my glow is gone, and Baz's mop of shiny black hair is tucked snug under my chin.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ❤️


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nehmet, esset, das ist mein Leib, der für euch gebrochen wird; solches tut zu meinem Gedächtnis." (Take, eat, this is my body, which is broken for you; do this in remembrance of me) is from 1 Korinther (Corinthians) 11:24
> 
> "Denn wer das Schwert nimmt, der soll durchs Schwert umkommen." (For whoever takes[/lives by] the sword, shall perish by the sword) is from Matthaeus (Matthew) 26:52

  


  
  


**BAZ**

While Snow hunts, I tidy up. Wash the linens, scrub the dishes. We've a bit of a routine now, and I quite enjoy that.

I'm just setting the wet laundry out to dry by the hearth, when it seems to me as if horses are galloping nearby. But this is impossible—there are no roads within earshot. Any major paths that once were, when this cottage was in use, are long grown over—reclaimed by the wildlife. I frown, set down the pair of Snow's hose I'm holding, and make my way outside to investigate. 

I see nothing out of the ordinary; it's simply the dense trees surrounding the little cottage as always. 

Then, straight ahead, from the South, something catches my eye. The forest seems to be becoming less dense—as if trees are disappearing. Flashes of black, of movement, are visible through the spaces forming. 

More and more trees disappear, closer and closer towards me, towards the cottage, as the sound of galloping becomes louder. I wonder at what manner of natural disaster this may be. And I wonder if I should flee. 

Enough trees have now disappeared, that I can make out a cavalry of horses, and a large, ornate black carriage. 

I decide in the moment to stand my ground. I'm not certain if this is wise or foolish, but I'm much too curious about this likely display of powerful magic—of which is very-much banned in this kingdom. The last of the trees to the south are gone, and in front of me is now a road, where there wasn't one before. 

The horses slow to a stop, and their riders in their all-black garb dismount. 

The carriage door opens, and out steps a particularly grand shoe, then … then my _father_ disembarks, coming out to stand on the freshly created road—observing his surroundings with a frown. 

_My father_ —whom I have not seen since I was a boy. Here, at Snow's cottage. (Or what I've come to privately refer to as _ours_.) 

'Father?' 

His eyes fall on me—cold as ever. 'Basilton.' He strides over to me, and I'm awed to find I've grown slightly taller than him. 

'You … you're here,' I blurt out. It's mad, though. 

He does not dignify my bumbling words with a response. 'Basilton, you have passed the age of eighteen. Am I right to assume you have magic?' 

I blink at him, and look past him to all the solemn riders in black. 

'Answer me, boy. Do you have magic, as your mother and father before you?' 

'You?' I ask, dumbfounded. 'And mother?' There had never been a sign, a clue. 

He sweeps his hand towards the road behind himself. 'How do you think this road was formed?' 

'How _was_ it formed?' I ask, because it's quite incredible. 

'A useful passage from the fifth book of Moses: Ich will durch dein Land ziehen, und wo die Straße geht, will ich gehen; ich will weder zur Rechten noch zur Linken ausweichen.' _I want to go through your country, and where the road goes, I want to go; I do not want to move to the right or the left._ 'Now do you have it, or not?' 

'I … do,' I finally admit, searching his cold, blank eyes. 

'Good,' he says, and I am relieved that I was not just caught in a trap. 'You will journey back with me, and commence your training in the magical arts at home.' 

_Home_. I swallow. 'I … I understand, Father.' 

'Go in, gather your things.' He nods at the door behind me. 

I feel like I'm in a daze as I enter the cottage. I look around unseeing; it's like I don't recognise it any longer. I move to where some of the wet laundry still sits in a pile, and I think about how some of the garments are mine—and can I just transport them wet like this? 

And I think: yes, of course I am obliged to do as my father, the King of Hampshire, instructs. But I am also shocked that he came here—himself—to get me. 

I think of Snow, I think of how he isn't here, that he isn't back yet. And I think of how I must tell him what's happening. 

Maybe he can come with me—maybe I can persuade my father to hire him on. It doesn't matter as to which duties—whether the court huntsman, or perhaps my own attendant … 

I sigh. I'll want to get Snow's opinion; I'll want to give him a choice. 

The door opens behind me, and I hope it's him—back just in time. But it's my father again. 'What is taking so long?' 

I blink at him. 'I'm sorry father, I'll hurry.' 

He tosses me something, and I catch it reflexively. An apple? It shines—red and white—in my palm. It's beautiful. 

' **Nehmet, esset, das ist mein Leib, der für euch gebrochen wird; solches tut zu meinem Gedächtnis.** ' 

I feel a sudden urge to eat the apple, a compulsion, although a small voice in the back of my head is asking _why_ , and for what purpose? 

I lift it to my mouth, and take a bite. (I can't help it, I feel like I _have to_.) The apple bursts sweet and flavourful. I look up at my father and find him grinning back at me very uncharacteristically. I frown, and swallow. He’s watching me with a hunger I find quite odd. 

And now I think I _feel_ a bit off. My limbs are becoming heavier and heavier—like they've been turned to iron. My eyelids are beginning to suffer the same fate. 'What did you …' 

I can’t stand any longer. I fall to the floor. 

From some place, somewhere far away I hear the door open. I hear feet clamour in. 

'Shall we move him to the coach, sire?' 

'Yes.' 

Darkness. All that's left is darkness, now.

**SIMON**

I heft the deer onto my shoulders, and make my way back home.

 _Home_. It really does feel like one, or at least, it feels like what I've always imagined a home to feel like: something safe, somewhere I can rest, the place I'm freest to be myself. It's always warm now—it's always got a fire going. And Baz has planted wildflowers in the front. 

There's something comforting about knowing where he is … that he's safe there. That I'll open the door, and he'll be cleaning up with his hair tied back in a handkerchief or a makeshift ribbon, or he'll be sitting with a book by the hearth. Or maybe practicing simple spells out back, and trying not to start any forest fires. 

When I round the bend, I see a massive coach and black horses sat in wait. And, incomprehensibly, there’s a giant road heading south. 

I set the deer down against an overturned tree trunk, and I'm running. 

I push the door open, and spot several things at once: Baz on the ground, a man standing over him, and several men watching from near our hearth. 

In a flash I'm taking out my hunting knife, and holding it out in defensive position. 

The man turns away from Baz, towards me. And I watch as this older man with a widow's peak and a grey beard seems to change, his features shifting, morphing into … 

'Simon,' the King says with deep disdain. 

I take a step back. 

'The betrayer,' he adds, advancing toward me. 

'What did you do to Baz?' I ask, gripping my knife tight, and taking another step backwards. 

The King laughs. 'I finally did what you were too weak to do.' He tilts his head. 'Too _weak_ —is it not pitiful that a King has do His own dirty work? Tell me, Simon, why couldn't you stomach killing the boy you'd always despised? Too craven to take on one little spoiled brat?' 

I suck in a breath. 'You didn't … you didn't kill him—' 

It isn't possible— 

It's not even— 

'Don't tell me you came to care for the boy, Simon.' 

My vision is becoming like a tunnel—it's only me, and the King. 'You had no reason to hurt him.' I'm backing up, I'm out the door now, and the King is approaching. 

'A King's reasons are far beyond the comprehension of a lowly huntsman, Simon.' He's out the door now, too. 

I'm breathing heavy, and I don't— 

I don't believe it; I don't believe that Baz is dead. 

I need to go to him, I need to _help him_ , but the King is in my way. 

The other men that were with him come pouring out just then, and each looks at me grimly. I look from face to face, searching for something—answers? Help? Penny's brother Premal is among them, and won't quite meet my eyes. 

'One more thing to wrap up, men,' the King says over his shoulder. Then he fixes me with an intense glare. 

I raise my knife, and arrange my feet on the dirt. 

He laughs. 'You won't be using that on me.' He straightens and pulls something out of his pocket. 'I've been saving this one for you, Simon. It's a good one.' He holds out a thin white utensil—a _wand_ , I realise. 

' **Denn wer das Schwert nimmt, der soll durchs Schwert umkommen.** ' 

Perish by the sword? 

Oh God—the King has magic? 

I wait. I wait helplessly for the magic to take me, for the hunting knife in my hand to turn on me. I am no match for magic. 

And I think: at least if Baz is dead, I'll be joining him. We'll … we'll cross over together. Something chokes out out of my mouth, something, some sound. I think it's grief. 

Tears blink in my eyes, and a terrible pressure mounts from within my chest. 

This is it. I'm going to die. And Baz is already dead. 

Baz … my Baz. All I see is his face, smiling at me that morning after my fever, trying to keep from grinning and failing beautifully. 

I blink, and stray tears drop down my cheeks. 

And … 

And nothing is happening. My chest hurts—but it’s a dull ache, an ache that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. I look up at the King, and see his eyes getting buggy—nearly popping out of his head. 

He's making choking sounds, and his men are rushing to him. The King collapses, and they catch him and lower him to the ground. 

One of them barks, 'Get him to the coach.' 

'We need a doctor—' 

'We need a Mage—' 

I watch helplessly as they struggle to move the King back to the coach. Before long they're charging off in a stampede of hooves and shouts. 

It's quiet, now. 

And I'm afraid. 

I'm terrified. 

Now that they're gone I'm scared to go inside and find what I know I have to find. 

‘Baz,’ I gasp out. I'm … I'm already crying. I'm choking out sobs, and my feet take me forward, stumbling into the cottage, near-blinded by tears. 

Baz has not moved from his place, splayed on the floor, and I know that's a bad sign. I fall to my knees beside him, and struggle to breathe through wet inhales. 

_He's dead_. 

And I should've been here to protect him. 

I fumble around for his cold hand, and I squeeze it, tumbling into his torso. 

'I'm so sorry,' I rasp into his chest. 'I'm so sorry.' 

Grief rips through me, like it's tearing out my organs straight through the skin of my chest. A part of me feels like I should be able to reverse time, just by a little while, because this only _just_ happened—it can't be too late. If I will it hard enough, can't I reverse it? 

I cry, on my knees, with my face on his terribly-still chest, his limp hand in my hand. 

My back aches from being hunched over like this—and isn't that stupid, that I'm thinking about my back right now? I lift up off his chest, I straighten my back, and I can't avoid looking at Baz's face now. 

I nearly crumple again, and I let out a loud choke. He's so lovely, even in death. It's almost like he's sleeping … His eyes are softly closed, not even a hint of pain there. And his lips are slightly parted, showing a bit of his teeth. 

I squeeze his hand, and bring it up to my cheek, as I rock back and forth. 

Baz isn't alive anymore. Baz doesn't exist in this world anymore. 

And what a terrible loss for the world … His leaving it has made it all worse. It’s like … it’s like flowers won't smell as nice; the sky won't be as blue. 

'I'm sorry,' I choke out, again.

**PENELOPE**

Simon shows up at our door looking absolutely wrecked. His face is red and blotchy, his eyes red-rimmed and downcast, and there's a heaviness to him—to the way he's holding himself.

'Simon,' I gasp out, 'what on earth is wrong?' 

His face crumples inward, and fresh tears trail down his cheeks. 'Baz is dead.' 

I blink at him, as those words try to sink in. Dead? 

I don't know what to say, so I pull him into my arms, and he nuzzles his nose into my hair. His body is quivering against me, so I hold on tighter. 'How? Who?' I ask into Simon's chest. This … this can't be real. 

'The King,' he chokes out, with a fresh wave of grief. 'I don't know how he did it.' 

I nod into him, and rub at his back. 

We stand like this for a long while, in my doorway. 

'Penny I don't know what to _do_. Do I have to bury him?' 

I swallow. I don't know what to do either, when someone dies. I pull back, and Simon stares back at me, red-faced and wet and heart-breakingly helpless. 'I'll get my parents, yeah? They'll know what to do.' 

He nods at me. And I brush my sleeve over his cheeks and under his nose, and try to smile reassuringly at him. I want to tell him it'll be okay, but I don't quite think that's true. 

I leave him to find my parents in their study—each pouring over a different set of books, a different set of interests. 

'Mum, Dad, Simon's here—and he says the King murdered Basilton Grimm-Pitch.' 

Their heads shoot up, and my mum is on her feet in seconds, coming over to me. She lays her hand on my shoulder. 'You're certain, Penny? The King?' 

I shrug, because what do I really know? 'It's what Simon said.' 

She pushes past me, and I trail after her. My dad follows behind me. 

Mum hugs Simon when she sees the look on his face, and ushers him out the door along with her. And now we're heading together to Simon's cottage—it's the saddest little procession I've ever been a part of. Simon sticks to my side, wiping at his face constantly, and letting out little sobs that he keeps trying to muffle with his palm, but it isn't working. And it’s breaking my heart. 

It seems like ages before we reach Simon's cottage. I frown at the road that wasn't there before (but I don't think this is the time to ask about it). Simon leads us into the cottage and stands by a pair of feet. Feet, that I see belong to Baz, who is laying on the flat hard floor, dead as can be. 

I suck in a breath. I've never seen a dead body before … and this is Baz. I _knew_ him. I don't want to look at him, but I also find I can't look away. 

My parents crouch down at either side of Baz, both frowning down at his face. My dad presses two fingers to Baz's pulse point, and Mum lifts up each of Baz's eyelids, then she pushes down on Baz's chin to open up his mouth. 

After several tense seconds, my dad says, 'He's still alive,' and removes his fingers from Baz's neck. 

'What?' I ask. 

And Simon collapses on to his knees, down beside my dad.

**SIMON**

I don't know if I dare believe it—but I want to, oh how I desperately want to.

Penny's dad takes my hand, and presses two of my fingers firmly against Baz's cold neck. He watches my face, as I wait. 

I've forgotten to breathe. 

And there it is … the faintest, slowest thump of a little heartbeat. And it's the most beautiful thing I could possibly imagine. 

I'm still crying, but now I'm smiling too. 'He's alive?' 

Penny's dad smiles slightly. 'He's alive.' 

Penny's mum bats my hand away, and tilts Baz's head back. 'He's swallowed something,' she murmurs, before shoving her fingers down into Baz's mouth. I tense—my first instinct is to tell her to stop. But the determined look on her face keeps me still. 

'Ah ha,' she says, pulling out a white chunk of something. She brings it to her nose and takes a deep sniff. 'Apple. It's been enchanted.' Her gaze surveys the room, and lands on something, underneath the chair by the hearth. She stands up to retrieve it, and comes back to sit at Baz's side. It's an apple, with a single bite missing. She sniffs this one too, then hands it to her husband to sniff. 

Penny's dad's eyebrows shoot up. 'Smells of Sleeping Death.' 

'Just as I thought,' says Mitali, through a heavy sigh. She turns to me, and I hold my breath. 'Simon, we've got good news and bad news.' 

I blink at her, feeling some of my elation lowering. 

'Good news: Prince Basilton isn't technically dead, and there _is_ a way to break the spell and return him to normal.' 

'Okay,' I say, with my voice cracking. And I'm still crying—I guess I can't stop. 

'But the bad news is that if the spell isn't broken, he will remain like this forever.' 

'How do we break it?' I'll do anything, I'll slay a dragon. I'll slay a thousand dragons. 

Mitali takes a breath. 'It can only be broken by love's first kiss.' 

'Love's first kiss?' Penny echoes, and I turn to her. She looks back at me, wide-eyed. 'But who does Baz love?'

**PENELOPE**

Mum and Dad are busy magicking a new back room so that Baz can have someplace to lie that isn't the middle of the floor, nor Simon's one bed up the stairs. (I can't imagine what sleeping every night with Baz's pseudo-dead body would be like.) I suppress a shiver.

Simon has sat down by the hearth, staring into the crackling flames, and I'm pacing the room, trying to think of a strategy. 

We'll need to think back through the entirety of our teenaged life … who might've we seen Baz make eyes at? Who did he talk about the most, who was he paying the most attention to? 

I hold my head, and grumble, because all I can come up with is _Simon_. The two of them were practically obsessed with one another, in an unhealthy and arch-enemy type of way. 

'Any ideas?' I ask Simon again. 

Instead of humming this time, Simon says, 'Princess Agatha.' 

'That's right!' I exclaim. 'They danced at the ball, didn't you say?' 

'Mmhmm.' 

'And you caught them together in the woods that one time?' 

'Yes.' 

He could stand to sound a bit more enthusiastic, I'm thinking. But, granted, he must be pretty exhausted (physically _and_ emotionally) from this day, so I won't mention it. 'I'll get her,' I say, 'I'll bring her here and the spell will be broken in no time.' 

Simon makes eye contact with me then, and I'm happy to see a small sort-of-sad smile form on his mouth. 

I go to him, and hug his head to me. 'We'll fix this,' I say, like it's a promise. And I hope I can keep it.

Mum and Dad return from the new room, where Baz is now—the room's got a door on it and everything. Mum rubs her hands together and looks at us. She seems completely worn out. 'We're done, and it should hold indefinitely.' She turns to Simon. 'And we've put wards on the place. Anyone with ill-intentions will not be able to enter again, Simon.' 

He smiles slightly. 'Thank you.' 

'It's been a long day,' Dad says. 'We should leave you to rest.' 

'I'll stay with him,' I offer.

**SIMON**

I sit on the edge of Baz's new bed, and I hold his hand in my lap. It's a small room; there's a bed big enough for one person, a little table where I've set a lantern, and that is all.

He looks peaceful—just like he's in a deep sleep. I've put a spare blanket over him, in case he's cold. 

The door opens behind me, and I turn to see Penny there, slipping inside. She comes to stand at my side, looking down at him, like I just had. 'It's like he's fast asleep,' she remarks. 

'Yeah.' 

We observe him in silence for a while. 

'Do you think he can hear us? Or sense us in some way?' I ask. 

'No idea,' Penny says thoughtfully. 

'I could, I don't know, read to him or something.' 

She smiles. 'I think he'd like that.' She strokes at my hair. 'You need your rest, Simon.' 

'I ... I want to stay with him, just for a little while longer.'

**PENELOPE**

When I wake in Simon's little bedroom, he's not there. So I dress and descend the stairs, and find he isn't there either. 'Oh, Simon,' I mumble, as I push open the door to the new room gently.

And there he is, asleep where he'd sat last night, fully clothed with feet on the ground, and torso half on top of Baz. I smile a little as I shake my head, then I close the door again softly so as not to wake him. 

I make a quick first meal and tiptoe a serving over to the little table beside Baz's bed. Simon is still in a deep sleep, with hands draped loosely around Baz's left arm and his head in Baz's armpit. I admire this deep friendship the two of them have managed to form. You'd never think it possible if you knew them even a few months back. 

It's time for me to journey to the castle to see about bringing the princess here. So I leave the cottage quietly, and head down this brand-new road. It smells of magic, powerful magic. I'll need to ask Simon about it soon.

~~

'So let me get this straight,' the princess says dryly, 'Prince Basilton has been enchanted, and the only way to break the spell is for his true love to kiss him?'

'” _True_ ” wasn't a stipulation, but yes. You've got the long and short of it.' 

'And you think _I_ might be the one he loves?' 

'Why not? Worth a shot, yeah?' 

She narrows her eyes at me. Suppose she doesn't go around kissing frogs or passed-out-princes as a general rule. I sigh, and add, 'Simon saw you in the woods together once, said you seemed pretty close. And you danced at the ball, right?' 

She huffs, and looks off out the window—but I don't think she's truly looking. 'That incident in the woods is not what you or your friend may think.' Her eyes slip back to mine. 'He asked me to …' She clears her throat daintily. 'Keep a secret for him.' 

'Ah.' Probably either the vampire or the mage thing, I'd guess. But this isn't important. 'Will you at least give it a try? If we don't find someone he loves, he'll be stuck like this forever.' I don't think I have to spell out what that means, which is: essentially Baz's death. 

She sighs. ' _Fine_. But if this is a trick—' 

'It isn't; I swear it isn't.' 

Princess Agatha frowns at me, down her nose. 'And I'm bringing bodyguards.' 

'All right!' I say, louder than necessary because I’m losing my patience. I don't bloody-well care who she brings along, as long as she kisses Baz. Lord, we've been at this for far too long today. At this rate it’ll be _next week_ by the time she actually shows up at the cottage. 

And then of course I have to wait some more as the princess gathers an entire onslaught to go along with her—a small army if you will. I am grateful that Micah is not among them. I just haven't the energy to deal with him _too_.

**SIMON**

I wake up with my feet numb and a terrible crick in my neck, along with the events of yesterday flooding back. Baz is quite still at my side so I guess he didn't magically wake in the middle of the night then. I … I really wish he had, though. I remove my head from the crook under his armpit and look at him—and he still seems like he's fast asleep, with lips slightly parted and eyes gently closed.

'Good morning,' I mutter, in case he can hear me. (He probably can't.) 

I sigh, and move his arm (which I was apparently draped around all night) back to being nicely folded over his chest. And I … I still have a terrible feeling of guilt, like a buzzing in the back of my neck and the tips of my fingers. Like I've let him down so profoundly … 

I brought him here for his protection, and … 

_Fuck_. I groan into my hands. 

When I look up again, it is nice to find Penny has left food out for me. I don't know what I'd do without her. 

So I eat, and try not to feel too miserable (but it's hard.) 

'Penny's gone to find Princess Agatha to bring here,' I tell him between mouthfuls. 

His hair is splayed out over the pillow, so I reach over, and attempt to tidy the strands closer to his face. 'You'll want to look presentable, I suppose.' 

I set my bowl down, and lean back, observing him. 'I don't know if you're in love with the princess or not, but I think she's the best candidate.' I suck in a breath. 'I have something to confess … it's not a big deal or anything, but I should still tell you, I think. I saw you and Princess Agatha together in the forest. You had her hands in your hands, and I thought …' I clear my throat. 'I mean, you two look good together—like day and night. It's like … it's like you match, right? Plus she's a princess, you're a prince … It makes sense.' I chew on the edge of my lip. 'And you cut in when I was dancing with her, you know? So, yeah, she's coming. She'll kiss you, and you might wake up today.' 

My eyes trail down to where his hands rest lightly on his chest. He has really nice hands; pale and long. His fingernails are perfectly rounded on the edge. 'I wonder if you'll marry her when you wake up.' That thought clenches at me, almost physically—like in my chest. 

It's not as if I thought he might want to stay here forever or anything. Of course he's going to eventually go back to Hampshire. He is the heir and whatnot. 

The sound of approaching hooves outside sets my heart rate going. I stand up, and walk to the front door to open it for them. 

And when I open the door to the bright outside, I'm surprised to see a whole entourage of people and horses and a soft-blue and white coach. The coach door opens and an attendant helps the princess out with a gloved hand. She brushes off her soft pink dress, and observes her surroundings with a small frown. 

She looks lovely—blonde hair braided and pinned up elegantly, accentuating her long neck. 

I take a breath. 

Penny piles out of the coach all on her own (the attendant is standing behind the princess, paying no mind to the coach's other passenger.) Her eyes find mine nearly immediately, and she rolls them—presumably to indicate how she feels about all this hubbub. 

Two big, burly men with matching small frowns shoulder past me into the cottage. 'Hey—' I say, turning to watch as they charge in, checking inside a cupboard (for what?), then one of them breaks off to check the upstairs. 

'Huntsman.' 

I try to relax from gritting my teeth too firmly and turn to the princess. She smiles at me politely, and I remember my manners in the moment, bowing to her. When I rise, I notice the attendant she's brought with her—a dark-skinned and freckled woman. And aside her is a dark-skinned and freckled man who appears to be another bodyguard judging by the size of him. 

'Show us to the prince,' the freckled woman says. 

'Yeah, I mean, of course.' This is all a bit bewildering, but I do—I lead the three of them to the new room. 

The bodyguard-type goes in first, and after a moment comes back to the door and signals the "all clear". This is ridiculous. 

Princess Agatha enters with her attendant and I trail in behind, shutting the door behind myself. 

She steps up to Baz's side gingerly, and sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed. She gazes down at his face—and they look a picture, even now, as if this moment should be illustrated inside a fairy tale. It's so lovely (and tragic)—beautiful princess with beautiful eternally-sleeping prince. I sigh, and the princess's attendant shoots me a look. 

'A little privacy?' Princess Agatha asks, and I realise she's talking to me. 

'Yeah, all right.' I slip outside the door, and stand waiting just beside it (because … well, I'll want to hear Baz's voice if he wakes up). 

I suppose I didn't want to see the princess kiss him anyhow. 

Minutes pass, and I'm getting antsy. I mean, I _guess_ I want it to be her. And I definitely want him to wake up. But shouldn't they be finished already? 

Muffled through the door I think I hear, 'Ginger, now you try.' 

'My lady?' 

'Come closer,' I hear. 'It's worth it, if it saves him.' 

I clench and unclench my fists, forcing myself to keep from bursting into the room and demanding that this isn’t a free-for-all, which is not what one normally says to a royal person. 

The door opens without warning—it's the bodyguard-type. I try to peer over his shoulder, but he pushes past me. The attendant comes next, and, finally, Princess Agatha. She makes eye contact with me on the way out, with lips pursed. I peek in behind her, and see that Baz is still frozen in place. 

And I'm … not sure how I feel. I think I feel guilty, for the very small part of me that didn't want it to be the princess who he loves. I think I also feel … well, a growing panic really, at not finding the person he loves, and nor do I have any more ideas. 

Oh God, what do I do?  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ❤️


	5. Chapter 5

**PENELOPE**

Since Simon is in hiding, I am tasked with scouring the castle for someone Baz might've fallen in love with during the years he's lived here. It's exhausting. And I'm starting to think Baz didn't have any friends at all.

'Oi, Keris,' I call, as I see her skirts disappear around a corner in the corridor. 

She peeks her head back around. 'Oh. Hello, Penelope.' 

'Hello,' I say, closing the distance between us as her eyebrow lifts. 'So, er, you know Prince Basilton, right?' 

She blinks at me. 'I am familiar with the prince, yes.' 

'Did you know if he had, like, a secret girlfriend or something?' 

Keris laughs. (I've been getting that response a lot.) 'A _girlfriend_?' 

I frown. 'Yeah, I mean, it's possible, isn't it?' 

She shakes her head at me, looking awfully amused. 'Prince Basilton hated this castle and everyone in it. He never even once spoke to me, and I know it's the same for Trixie.' 

'I … see.' Well … so much for that. 

'The only person he ever really paid any attention to was Simon Snow.' 

I sigh. 'Well, thanks.' 

She quirks her brow up at me again. 'Why are you asking? Isn't he back home?' 

'Yes—' 

'I'm glad he went back, he always seemed so unhappy here—like he was trapped or something.' 

'Mm. Well, I must be off.' 

'All right, see you later!' 

I give her a little wave, and stalk off. I’m beginning to suspect one possibility, and I don't think it bodes well. What if … Baz didn't love anyone? And maybe he didn't … it's not like it's that normal to be in love. Even plenty of married people aren't in love. 

What does that mean for the spell though? It's not as if we can get him to fall in love with someone _now_. 

I'm worried this might mean that there isn't a way to break the spell. And I'm afraid for what that means for Simon. He's grown so attached to Baz. It'll hurt him, more than I can guess. 

I sigh, and decide it's time to head back. I'll tell Simon I had no luck today, and that I'll try again tomorrow. But I know that one day I may have to tell him it's time to give up.

**SIMON**

Days pass, and Penny isn't coming up with any clues.

In a moment of desperation, I ask her, 'Why don't you try?' 

She looks at me like I've grown a tail. 

'You could kiss him,' I continue. 'Who knows, yeah? Maybe he had secret feelings for you?' 

Her expression is rapidly morphing into one of vague disgust. 'Simon,' she says slowly. 'I don't think there's any world in which Baz and I would have feelings for each other.' 

'Why not?' I ask. 'You were sort-of friendly there for a while. And it's _Baz_ , and it's _you_.' They're … probably the two most important people to me now. If they loved each other, I wouldn't lose them to marriages outside the kingdom. I mean, if they got married, they'd probably have to move to Hampshire, but maybe I could come too? It's not like I still have a job here, after what's happened. 

Penny's looking in the direction of the back room. There's a pause, while I'm quietly urging her in my mind, and then she sighs heavily. 'All right, Simon. If it'll make you feel better, knowing I tried, I will.' 

I grin at her, biting at my lip. 'Thank you.' 

She takes a deep breath, and walks over to the room. And I get up to trail behind her. 

'This is mental,' she mumbles as she moves to sit on the edge of Baz's bed. Penny frowns down at him. 

And I wait. 

'You're sure?' she asks. 

'Yeah,' I say with forced optimism as I shrug. 

'All right,' Penny says dubiously. Then she leans down and presses her lips to Baz's lips. I can see her grimacing against them, while squeezing her eyes shut, like she’s trying to block out the entire experience. She breaks off, and holds the back of her hand to her mouth, staring down at him. 

He doesn't move. 

'His lips are _cold_ ,' she complains, and I don't know what to say to that. 

I always thought his cold skin was just one of the many interesting things about him. And it doesn't bother me, really, since I run hot. We sort of, well, balance out that way I guess.

~~

As the days go on, I'm becoming increasingly desperate. I get Penny to break into Baz's old quarters at the castle, and have her ransack the place.

After the third day, she returns with a stack of letters from someone named Dev in Hampshire. 

I know I shouldn't invade Baz's privacy—and I don't really want to. But desperate times, yeah? So I read all of the letters, all of them. And from what I gather, Dev is a relative of Baz's. There's information in there on Baz's family, on the Hampshire weather, on someone named Niall whom this Dev seems very fond of. 

I think he's trustworthy. If he and Baz were this close, he’s got to be. 

So, I write a letter, explaining everything, and Penny takes it to a courier to have it sent. 

And now, we wait.

~~

Weeks later, Penny comes to visit.

'Do you have a reply?' I ask, hurrying to meet her at the roadside. 

Penny's brows are furrowed. 'Yes.' She walks past me to the front door and opens it. 

'Well, let's see,' I say excitedly, trailing inside after her, practically nipping at her heels like a puppy. 

'Simon …' She slows to a stop, and spins to face me. 'No one's seen the King for weeks, and people are starting to talk. There're rumours that he's ill ...' Penny takes a step closer to me, searching my eyes. 'Doctors have been seen going in and out of the King’s chambers, as well as strange hooded folk with odd-looking bags.' 

'Okay.' I don't know why we're walking about this, when I could be reading a very important letter right now. 

'Premal hasn't come home at all.' 

At the mention of his name, I frown. 

'You said the King seemed to be choking? And he'd cast … what was it again?' 

'Denn wer das Schwert nimmt, der soll durchs Schwert umkommen.' The memory makes me shiver.

'Whomever lives by the sword, perishes by the sword,' she mutters. 'He thought it would kill you, because you are a huntsman. But you don't exactly _live_ for the sword, so it backfired.' 

'I suppose,' I say slowly. I'd really rather read the letter right now. 

'And he started choking. Maybe the sword can be symbolic, like a weapon.' Her brow crinkles up more. 'For mages, their words are their weapons …' 

'What are you saying, Penny?' I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I'm proper antsy. 

'The King may be dead or dying.' 

I frown at her. 

'I have a bad feeling about this.' She moves to sit in the new chair by the hearth. And, without a word, she produces a letter from the waistband of her skirt and holds it in the air. 

I snatch it up hungrily, and sink into the chair beside her. I break the seal and read.  
  
  


> Hello Simon Snow,
> 
> You were right to come to me with this. While I don't know to whom my dear cousin loves romantically, if anyone, I do know that he has family members who love him, just as he is. I believe Basilton will be better off with family, in a kingdom that does not wish to harm him.  
>  This letter may predate me by a day or two, but I will be there shortly to collect him and bring him home. 
> 
> Thank you for your assistance up to this point. 
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Dev

I grip the parchment tight. 'He wants to …' My eyes drift to the door to Baz's room. 'Take him away.'

Penny sighs. 'Well that's probably for the best, Simon.' 

And maybe she’s right, I just … 

I exhale heavily. And Penny scoops out some of the soup I’ve been making into bowls. 

After Penny leaves for home, I go into Baz's room to sit with him. He still looks just as he did when this started. I wonder if he'd age at all, if left like this for years, or if he's frozen this way. 

I squeeze my hands into fists. That isn't want I want. I want the spell broken, I want him _back_. 

'Hey Baz,' I say softly. 'I've gotten a letter from your cousin, from Dev.' No reaction. (And of course not.) 

I sigh, and then I read it to him. 

'So that's it. You're going home soon.' 

I don't know what else to say, so I stay sitting beside him, until it's time I leave his side to get ready for bed.

~~

I hear distant horses the next morning. _Seriously_? Today? I scramble out of bed, and dress quickly.

When I descend the steps, there's already an impatient knocking at the door. I open it, and the man who greets me does not look like Baz. His skin is darker and his hair is lighter. He's about the same height, but all-around more square. 

Dev smirks at me, and extends a hand, 'Simon Snow, I presume?' 

I take it. 'Yes. Welcome, Dev.' 

He nods, smiling slightly, and looks past my shoulder. 'Is he here?' 

No preamble, then. 'Yes, the back room there.' 

'Well let's have a look,' he says brightly, and shoulders past me. 

I trail behind, and I feel something creeping in, some kind of heaviness. I'm kind of miserable, I realise. I was hoping I'd have a little longer … one more day even. 

Dev opens the door with a flourish, as if he expects something spectacular on the other side. 'Oh, Basilton,' he says, clicking his tongue, and then he enters. 

I follow in behind, and cross my arms near the door. 

Dev sits on the edge of the bed and gazes down at Baz's peaceful face. 'Ah, cousin. You've got yourself in a bit of a bind, eh?' He seems to consider something, and his eyes flicker over to mine. I try not to make it so obvious as to how I'm feeling. 'I wonder …' 

'Mm?' I sort-of ask. 

' _Love's first kiss_ , hmm? Well Basilton and I certainly love one another, though it is familial love, and strictly chaste, mind you. Worth a shot, wouldn't you say?' 

I blink at him, and try to form a response. Dev … and Baz? A kiss? 

He isn't waiting for a response from me. 'Forgive me, cousin,' he says lightly, then leans over and plants a kiss on Baz's mouth. 

I didn't think … I mean, I don't think they should— 

But I watch with bated breath to see if Baz wakes up. 

Dev ends the kiss and frowns as if that'd been vaguely distasteful. 'Well,' he says decidedly, straightening up. 'Worth a try.' He turns to me, and I try to school my expression into something neutral. (I just saw _a man_ kiss Baz and I—) 

I clear my throat. 

'Have you got any of his belongings to pack into the coach?’ 

I nod slowly, and clear my throat again. 'I'll just, er, collect them …' I say trailing off at the end. 

Dev comes with me, and calls in one of his attendants from outside to assist. 

While the two of them are wrestling a crate of clothes down the steps I say, 'I'm just going to, um, say goodbye to him. Okay?' 

Dev says, 'Of course,' over his shoulder. 

I slip into the room, and shut the door behind myself. 

Turning slowly—there he is, lying there, just as he has for weeks. And I know that this may be the last time I’ll ever see him. And I won't even have anything to remember him by, with Dev taking all of his things. Baz’s face, his voice, may fade from my memory completely. And then he'll just be a man I used to know, when I was young. 

I move to sit beside him. He still looks like he's sleeping—his face is relaxed, his lips parted just slightly. They're just as greyish-pink as always. 

Baz has a naturally frowny mouth; it dips down on the edges. And the skin is a bit pouchy below each corner, like he has bits of cotton tucked against his gums. 

I think about how Princess Agatha has already kissed his lips. How Penny has. How Dev has, just now. 

A knock sounds at the door. I twist around to stare at it helplessly. 

‘We're all loaded up,’ is said through the closed door. 

"Can I have a bit longer?" I ask. "To say goodbye?" 

‘'Course, mate.’ 

I deflate, and bring my attention back to Baz. 

‘You're going back home,’ I tell him. ‘Your cousin's here to take you.’ I take a deep breath, and search his closed eyes. He has delicate black eyelashes. I miss the way he used to look at me—with those depthless grey eyes. I never knew why, but they'd always be fixed to mine when I entered a room. I thought it was hate, but I don't even know anymore. ‘With any luck,’ I begin hesitantly, ‘your true love will turn up in your home country. Maybe it's a maid? Or a cook? And you never had anyone to tell.’ 

That makes me sad, that he never really had anyone to confide in. ‘I wish you'd told me,’ I say, studying his nose now. ‘I wish you'd told me if there was someone you loved. Maybe it could've been by the lake that day.’ I can picture it, and I smile at the thought. ‘All you had to do was mention that there was this really lovely scullery maid back home, who was sweet on you. Then all _I'd_ have to do was have her sent along with Dev straight away.’ I suck in a breath. ‘I hope she knows, though, if she’s out there. I hope that when you return, the right person shows up, and knows they're the one.’ His nose is a bit too high, like … it's encroaching on Baz's forehead. I want to pinch it and tug it down a peg. 

There's a loose strand of black hair caught in Baz's eyebrow. Without thinking, I push it away, and end up stroking his forehead a bit with my fingertips. His skin is cool to the touch, and terribly smooth. 

He's so lovely. 

‘I'm meant to say goodbye right now,’ I murmur. ‘They're waiting for you.’ I'm sure I've long ago memorised Baz's face, but I'm trying again now. ‘The truth is …’ I swallow. ‘I don't want you to go. Not when I've only just got you.’ 

My chest aches, and I rub my knuckles against it in the hopes it'd ease some suffering. But it doesn't. 

‘After someone kisses you awake, will you come back? Just to say hello?’ It's a long shot. This country is rife with bad memories for Baz, I'm sure. ‘Or, at least, will you send me a letter?’ 

Another knock at the door startles me to sit up straight. 

‘All right?’ comes muffled through the door. 

‘Just a couple more minutes, please?’ 

‘Okay. But no more than that, we have a long journey ahead.’ 

‘Yes, yes, I know. Sorry!’ I call out. ‘I'll be only a moment more!’ 

I suck in a deep breath, and I look down at him. He seems so peaceful, still. And something just ... well, compels me now. ‘Would you mind terribly if I …’ I stare at him, he doesn't flinch—no sign that he's even partly aware of my presence. ‘Would you mind if I kissed you, chastely? As a goodbye?’ My breath hitches. 

Baz does not move, as I suspected he wouldn't. 

And suddenly I'm unexpectedly nervous. I am vaguely aware that what I'm asking to do is more-than-frowned-upon. (By society as a whole, that is.) I also know that Baz would likely stab me if he knew. And that in itself should be enough to stop me. 

Others have already kissed him without his permission, and I shouldn't either. 

But there is a small, tiny part of me—like something tucked away in a back cupboard—that wonders … what about me? Why not me? Shouldn't every exhaustible candidate try, no matter how unlikely? This is Baz's life at stake, after all. 

‘Please forgive me,’ I whisper as I lower myself into his space. 

This is it, I think, as I close the distance. 

Baz's lips—cool as the rest of his skin—are soft and pliant under mine. I squeeze my eyes shut. 

It didn't work. 

I kiss him anyway, planting a light kiss, then a longer one. 

I suck in air sharp through my nose, and sort of feel like crying. 

My heart is racing … and I know I need to pull away. I need to say goodbye forever. 

A gasp startles me—a gasp like no other—like the first breath-in after a near drowning. And it’s not me making it. 

I pull away, and lips are chasing mine. My tunic is being _tugged_. 

_Baz_ , I think frantically, as my eyes pop open. His are still closed, so near to mine. 

But his mouth, it's definitely pushing at me, and my tunic is still being tugged towards the bed, towards _him_. 

The kiss is hurried, desperate—and all I can feel is _relief_ , the greatest relief I've ever felt, because Baz is _okay_. He's come back to me, to us … to the world, rather. 

Then Baz wrenches his mouth from mine with an audible smack, and shoves me hard—nearly shoving me straight off the bed and onto the floor. I catch myself, before I can fall. And Baz … he scrambles back on the mattress, away from me, like he's a cornered animal. 

All I can do is blink at him, as he stares back at me with wide-eyes, with a face twisting up in an expression I can only describe as horror. 

I stand up, and back away slowly, to give him some space, some air. He's panting, staring at me like I'm going to hurt him. 

‘Baz,’ I start, softly. 

‘Don't!’ he barks at me. 

I blink at him, because I don't understand this reaction. 

Or … maybe I do? 

He woke up to me kissing him, a _bloke_ kissing him, which is far-reachingly considered morally wrong, detestable, even disgusting. 

I never understood why … because an old book told people so? 

But what's so awful about two people with the same equipment between their legs sharing something that doesn't hurt a single person? How could love, or affection, or lust ( _whatever_ —the word itself doesn't matter), possibly do to offend the world? 

I hadn’t realised until now that I have an opinion. I don’t even remember when I might’ve even thought about this before. But there it is—and it’s clear as day to me that I don’t believe homosexuality to be wrong. 

I want to say all of this to Baz. But he is staring at me in fear, in revulsion, and I know now that regardless of what I might say, this is it. Truly. This is the end of our friendship. 

I tear my eyes away from him, because it’s becoming too painful, and I speak instead to the wall above his head. ‘Dev is outside, ready to take you home.’ 

Then I turn and I touch the doorknob. ‘They want to get on the road soon,’ I say to the door. 

I pull myself away from him, and it’s immensely difficult; It’s as if I had a string tied to him, and now I’m having to pull it tight until it snaps. But it doesn’t snap—it just feels like more and more pressure the further I move away. I walk anyways, and keep walking until I'm out the cottage and I'm spotting Dev leaning up against the cart. 

‘He's awake,’ I say without even slowing down. 

Dev springs into action, heading straight inside as two of his attendants trail in behind him. 

Sighing, I stop in front of a toppled-over log several metres to the left of the front door, and I lower myself down to sit, running fingers through my hair. 

I'm just happy he's okay. That's what I'm telling myself. 

A few minutes later, the door opens, and the lot of them come out, with Baz in tow. My chest hurts, seeing him now, knowing that this is it. He seems stiff, holding himself upright, with jerky movements forward. But he's able to walk without help, so that's a good sign. 

I stand, but I don't move any closer. I don't want to frighten him again. 

Baz doesn't look around when he's being helped into the coach. As far as I can tell he's kept his eyes glued to it ever since he stepped foot outside. Like he's desperate to be out of here, like he's desperate to leave without even looking at me again. 

Dev is the last to get settled. He turns his head—spots me, and comes over. 

‘Listen, I'm not going to ask, but I just want to say thank you,’ he says. ‘I think you just saved his life.’ 

I nod, and attempt to smile—but I'm sure it comes out warbled. 

‘He'll thank you himself, I think, when the shock's worn off.’ And with that, Dev pats me on the shoulder and turns to leave. 

I watch helplessly as he gets into the coach, sends me a little wave, and then shuts the door tight. I watch as the men urge the horses onward. 

My feet work now, and they carry me to the road, as if it's automatic. And I watch as the troop gets smaller and smaller, then rounds a bend, and is gone from sight completely. 

‘Goodbye,’ I say through an exhale, then I turn to go back inside. I should … I should wash the linens that Baz has slept on for weeks. Tidy ... tidy up.

**BAZ**

Now that I'm safely stashed away in a coach with Dev, I allow all the tension I'm holding everywhere to release.

I'm shaking, positively aquiver. 

Dev eyes me. ‘Baz—’ 

I shake my head. I don't want to talk. I don't want to anything. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, and I allow myself to vibrate like a madman. Dev won't judge. 

Eventually, when it settles, and I'm trying desperately not to _think_ , I decide I need to get Dev talking, _now_. ‘How is your mother?’ I croak out. 

He laughs. ‘Seriously?’ 

‘Yes.’ I just want him to talk. 

‘She's fine. All the family's well. Now, don't you want to talk about you?’ 

_I don't know._

Fine—I ... I suppose some part of me would like to know. ‘How long was I out?’ 

‘Six weeks.’ 

Six weeks? Now that is a surprise. I knew I'd slept a long while, but I'd guess days—days not _weeks_. ‘Tell me.’ 

‘Everything?’ He laughs. ‘I hear you were poisoned with an enchanted apple by King David, and while he was disguised as your father, no less. Magic—which is rich coming from the one country that outlaws it.’ 

I grit my teeth. ‘What was the spell?’ 

Dev shifts in his seat, not quite meeting my eye. 

‘What.’ Obviously it's something distasteful, something that ultimately lead me to awaken with … well. I clear my throat. 

Dev sighs. ‘You won't like it.’ 

‘Dev—’ 

‘Fine. It's called "Sleeping Death" according to the Snow fellow.’ I pinch my mouth shut tight, and wait. ‘It's, ah, well it's a curse that make you fall asleep. Indefinitely.’ 

He's trying to dodge the whole story. ‘And?’ 

Dev deflates. ‘The only way to break it is … love's first kiss.’ 

‘Love's first kiss,’ I echo, and feel a deep sense of dread creep up my spine. 

We make eye contact and I immediately know now that he knows. I can see it in his eyes—and it looks like pity. Dev clears his throat and feigns interest in the countryside whipping by out the window. 

‘So you know,’ I say through an exhale, stretching my legs out, and raising my eyes to the coach ceiling as we bob back and forth on the uneven road. ‘Are you going to tell anyone?’ 

Dev huffs. ‘Who would I tell? Your father? Fat chance of that, mate.’ A brief pause, and then Dev's voice softens. ‘You're my cousin, I have your back. Always.’ 

I smile at him as much as I can bear considering the circumstances (which, admittedly, isn't very much), and he smiles back, warmly. ‘Thank you,' I say. 'The feeling is … mutual.’ 

Dev nods, and resumes his inspection of the passing scenery—this time with a small smile. 

Now I suppose I'm left to my thoughts, again. 

And there is something I've yet to properly acknowledge—in words—to myself. I've tried to avoid it thus far. But I suppose I'll need to face it sometime. 

Simon Snow has kissed me. 

I can still feel the echo of it on my lips; I remember the precise amount of pressure he exuded against me, and I remember the softness of his mouth, the warmth of his breath from his nose. 

I’ve no clue on whether it was his idea or someone else's prompting. Perhaps Bunce put him up to it. And perhaps I haven't been as careful with my feelings as I thought I had. Or perhaps it was a last resort; it'd been an experiment. 

Nevertheless, no matter the reason, they'll all know now. 

Simon Snow knows. 

That I … in fact … love him. 

And though I've never practiced my defect in a bedroom, he could still very-well accuse me of such, and send the authorities after me for my arrest. 

I am … immensely grateful that we are leaving the country. But I am also aware that I will not see the man I love. Ever again. 

Well … This … is for the best. I have to believe that.

**PENELOPE**

When I return, I find Simon sitting on Baz's bed. His very _empty_ bed. I sigh. Baz's body has been taken back to Hampshire then. I hope they find his love over there.

I lean in the doorframe, and observe Simon for a quiet moment. 

He's sat up with his back to the wall, and has Baz's blankets up over his knees, with head deeply bowed. I'm not sure if he's awake, come to think of it. 

I take a few steps in to check, and he lifts his head. I stop in my tracks at the expression on his face. ‘Oh, Simon.’ He looks absolutely devastated. ‘It's for the best that—’ 

‘I kissed him.’ 

Whatever I was saying is lost. I blink at him, and wait for those words to make sense. ‘You kissed Baz?’ 

He nods, not meeting my eye. He's still all hunched over, with his knees up by his chin. 

‘ _Why_?’ Surely Baz's love would not be Simon, and there would be absolutely no point in even trying. 

He shrugs helplessly. ‘Thought it was worth a try.’ 

I shake my head and go to sit with him. ‘Simon … men don't love other men, not like—’ 

‘He woke up.’ 

‘I beg your pardon?’ 

‘He woke up.’ 

I look around, as if I expect Baz to jump out from somewhere. And when he doesn't, I _think_. ‘He woke up,’ I echo softly. ‘I didn't think men loved other men,’ I say, honestly. It's certainly not talked about. Every couple I've ever heard of has always been one woman, one man. This is … hmm. I'm going to be thinking about this for a great while, I suspect. 

‘What if it's me …’ Simon says miserably. 

‘What if _what_ is you?’ I ask, but Merlin if I'm not distracted. Baz and Simon … 

‘Penny … the spell is broken by "love's first kiss", right?’ 

‘Yes …’ 

‘It wasn't Baz's first kiss—the princess kissed him, you kissed him.’ I wince unconsciously. ‘This was my very first kiss, Penny.’ 

‘What are you saying?’ 

‘I think _I_ love Baz, that the spell was broken because I love him, and it was my first kiss.’ 

I try to read his expression—but he's squeezing his eyes shut. ‘You think you love Baz?’ (I know I'm repeating a lot of sentences back, but these are quite puzzling sentences. It's quite out of the ordinary.) ‘But I was sure you hated him for years.’ 

He shrugs, just once, like his shoulders are heavy. ‘I guess I thought I did too, but during all our time together … our chances to get to know each other properly … I …’ 

‘Hmm.’ It does seem possible that Simon’s love broke the spell—it's an angle I hadn't considered. ‘Hang on, Simon. How are you so sure you love him and not the other way around?’ 

Simon squeezes his knees into himself. ‘You didn't see Baz's face. He was _horrified_.’ At that, he buries his face in the blanket. 

‘Oh... oh, Simon,’ I say again, softer now. I sling an arm around his shoulders, and wedge right up against him. ‘I'm so sorry. This must feel very confusing.’ (It certainly does for me.) 

Simon nods against his knees. 

‘At least he's okay, right? He's awake.’ 

‘Mmhmm,’ comes muffled through the blanket. ‘He went back.’ 

‘Ah.’ Back to his home—his family. That is probably for the best. 

‘He's gone,’ Simon says in a miserable whisper. 

And I … I lay my head down on his shoulder, because that's all I know to do.

**BAZ**

It's a long fortnight of a journey. And the more time that has passed, the more my heart has ached.

I wish I had first confirmed with Snow his reasons. But I also know I couldn't've. I never would have got the words out. 

I can imagine it though. ("Why'd you kiss me?" "Because _you_ love _me_ , you freak. I've always been able to tell, and I've been laughing at you with Penny all this time. But, even though I hate you, I didn’t want you stuck like this forever. I'm gallant like that.") 

But a part of me imagines it another way. A foolish part. ("Why'd you kiss me?" "Because I love you _too_ , Baz. _I am in love with you_.") 

I laugh humourlessly, and Dev shoots me a look. 

Foolish. Foolish foolish foolish.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ❤️


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ich taufe euch mit Wasser" (I baptize you with water) is from Markus (Mark) 1:8

  
  


**BAZ**

The closer we get to the castle I was born in, the more unease I seem to feel, like I've an itch I can't scratch. Or as if I'm travelling in the wrong direction, and alarm bells are ringing in the back of my head, telling me to turn around.

But I simply have to ignore these feelings, so I push the curtain aside and peer out the carriage window to distract myself.

Home. 

It's still here, and it's just as I remember as a boy. Lording over the town from above like a brooding and overbearing father amongst stark grey skies. 

My eyes drift down to the road as we wind through the township. There are shopkeepers sweeping in front of their wares, and ruddy-faced beggars without shoes. People. Ordinary people. People shopping, with baskets tucked under arms—overflowing with breads and eggs and apples. 

We're getting closer, and I find I'm squeezing my fists tight in my lap. _This is the right thing to do_ , I tell myself. I can't stay in hiding forever; I must face up to who I am. I have a duty as firstborn son. I have a duty to my family and to this kingdom. 

The castle leers above us, tall and black, as the carriage pulls up. I know what I'll find inside: wood so dark it looks black, with rich red accents like freshly spilled blood. The halls filled with sullen, serious people. Gargoyles watching from above that appear to follow you with their eyes. High arched ceilings, wide corridors that are never adequately lit. Long shadows, dark alcoves. Silence. 

All this, along with my father, his most recent wife, and their many children. 

And the cold. A terrible cold. 

A line of grim servants greets us at the entrance. As we exit the coach, a chill passes through me, though there is no wind. 

Vera steps forward, and bows low. 'His Majesty the King welcomes his firstborn son, returned home.' 

'Thank you, Vera. And will my father be meeting me?' 

'His Majesty regrets his absence, but shall speak with you on the morrow.' 

I pinch my mouth shut, but I nod. So much for the prodigal son returned. 

Turning to Dev, I ask, 'Will you stay a while?' 

He shakes his head, looking like he's sorry for it. 'Must head back.' He leans in and embraces me. I can tell he's searching for the right thing to say, but can't quite find it. 

'Thank you,' I say, because it needed to be said. 

He pulls back, and claps a hand on my shoulder. He still looks like he's trying to find the words. So I smile, and say, 'See you at the next feast.' 

Then I turn and follow Vera in.

~~

My empty quarters feel unnecessarily large. It's lurid, really.

I sit on the edge of my four-poster bed, because that's all I can think to do with myself. 

Servants come in and out, bringing me food and drink. They light the fire in the hearth. They tidy up, and put adequately-sized new clothing in my wardrobe since I've long outgrown anything I would have worn when I lived here. I imagine I’ll be properly measured and fitted for some new clothes soon. The servants bow to me, but they do not speak. 

So I just watch them work. And I sit. 

When night falls, they come to undress me, to run my bath. And when I step out of the bath, there is someone there to hand me a linen to dry off with—his eyes neutral and trained to affix themselves on the far wall. 

I am next dressed for bed. 

And I lie there, in my soft silken bedsheets, staring up at the gauzy red canopy above my head. 

Though today's mundane events and environments were the norm for the majority of my life, they feel foreign to me, and I distinctly feel worlds away from my life. But that is a farce, I remind myself. I am a prince, and this is where I belong—with my family, my people. This is my duty. 

Playing house out in nature with Simon Snow was foolish. A foolish blip in my history. It's all merely memories now, as I adjust back into this life—the life I was born into. Destined for. (And all that rubbish.) But … I can admit now that I will treasure those memories until I breathe my last breath. 

I close my eyes, and try to sleep. 

The room is terribly still and silent. And now I realise what's wrong. 

I had Dev with me, in the inns along our journey. That had been enough to mask the true problem, which appears to be: I can't easily sleep without Simon Snow's steady breaths, without the assurance of his nearness. And his warmth … The safety I feel deep in my bones when he’s with me. 

Well … it's just another thing to adjust to.

~~

My father does visit me in the morning as promised; It's just after I'm dressed for the day, and nearly ready for first meal. He frowns at me immediately, like he's been served something not to his tastes at supper. (In his case—pea soup would be an adequate metaphor.) He seems too large for my already vast room—though I do in fact find that he is shorter in stature than I am. King David must have known, somehow.

Father settles into a chair next to the window, smoothing out his robes, and looking off into the rolling hills beyond the glass. I pull up my desk chair in order to sit across from him. I suppose we'll have much to talk about—he may not know about my near-assassinations. 

'Basilton.' His eyes shift to mine sharply. 

'Father.' 

'You've returned.' 

'Yes, Father.' (Well-spotted.) 

'You were not given leave to return here. Not from myself, nor from King David.' 

I blink at him. Surely he could _pretend_ to be pleased to see me? 'King David wanted me dead, Father. He nearly had me killed. Twice.' 

My father's frown deepens. 'Yes, well, I see that you are quite unscathed.' 

_Am I_? I want to scream this at him. In the end, I settle on, 'Alive, at least.' 

'Are you?' he asks with a heavy sigh. And it sends a chill up my spine when I realise what he's implying. 'Basilton, I'll be frank, I'm not sure you should have returned.' 

My heart rate quickens as I think: but I am his son, his firstborn, the _heir_ — 

He says, 'You are a vampire, Basilton. I cannot have you near my children.' 

I suck in a harsh breath and squeeze my hands into fists. _But I am your child too! Or have you forgotten in all the years I've been away?_ Instead, I say, I plead, ' _Father_ —' 

As if he has read my thoughts, he adds matter-of-factly, 'You are my son in name only. My son died when my first wife did, when he was bitten and turned into nothing but a monster. I consider you no different from a dragon or chimera, a werewolf or demon, and you shall not inherit the crown.' His tone is so _cold_ , so clinical and unfeeling. 'I will not leave this kingdom to a bloodeater.' He frowns down the length of me. 'In addition, I doubt you can sire heirs, and the line would rapidly die with you. Surely you know that there was a never a chance I would ever allow you to become King.' 

I— 

I … 

'You have a choice. You can leave and never return, or you can stay here, locked in your quarters where you cannot disturb the royal family. A servant will bring you animal blood every day, and you will be kept quite comfortable.' 

This … cannot be happening. I ... I don't ... 

'Well?' 

'I … have nowhere to go.' 

'Very well.' My father stands, and takes his leave without even a glance behind himself. Seconds later, I hear a key turn the lock.

**PENELOPE**

'Why are you doing this, Simon?' I ask gently, curiously. I've been watching him dedicate every spare movement to bettering the little dilapidated cottage that he's chosen to call home. I'm sitting on a stump, watching him attempt to make a bed frame. (I'm the one who lent him the how-to book, and I'm slightly regretting it because spending time with him now means watching him saw or hammer or haul things around.)

Simon ceases his sawing, and wipes his damp forehead with his shirt sleeve. He looks at me, with those blue eyes, and I can read something there. An emptiness, a loneliness, and like he's reserved himself to the feeling. And I hate to see him like this. 

'Is it because you hope he'll come back?' 

His mouth twists into a grimace, as he takes up his saw again. 'I know he's not.' 

'Then …' I don't know what I'm hoping to hear ... I suppose I just want him to tell me he'll be all right. 

'It's our home, even if he's not in it,' Simon says with his hand stilled on the saw, and eyes cast downward. 'I just want it to look nice.' 

I … I think can understand that, even if it breaks my heart. 

The sound of several galloping horses breaks up our conversation. Simon lets go of his saw, and straightens up. I read a tentative flicker of hope in his eyes as they focus toward the road. 

I, on the other hand, feel a distinct sense of unease. If it were Baz returning, would he come charging in so? (Well, perhaps, but I can’t help but have a very bad feeling about this.) 

We wordlessly move towards the roadside in wait. Black horses come galloping in, pulling a coach, with armed riders escorting it on all sides. 

They pull to a stop in front of us, and the guards are dismounting and surrounding us in the blink of an eye. 

'What's all this?' I ask. 

'Simon Snow, you are hereby under arrest. Charged henceforth with regicide.' 

' _Regicide_?' Simon looks at me with panic, a panic that I very-much share. 

'Murder of the King?' I ask in desperation, looking from solemn face to solemn face around us. 'But surely—' And then my eyes land on _him_. 'Premal!' 

'Restrain her!' my brother commands. 

'But you were there!' I shout, dumbfounded, as strong arms take mine and hold them behind my back. 'You saw what happened! Simon didn't lay a finger on him!' 

My brother doesn't look me in the eye—he looks slightly to the right of my face, and has fixed his mouth in a frown. 

'You were there!' They've got Simon restrained, and he isn't fighting them like I am. 'You saw it! You know!' 

'It's okay, Penny,' Simon says. And I hate it—I hate it I hate it. He's defeated without even trying. 'I'll go quietly,' he says to the guards. 

'No, Simon!' 

He twists in his captors’ arms to smile sadly at me. 'It's all right.' 

'No it is _not_!' I say, because _it isn't_. This is preposterous, this is wrong, this is an act of _evil_. 

And all I can do it watch as they load my best friend up into the coach and lock it behind him, before mounting their horses to get ready to leave. My personal guard waits until they're already setting off down the road to release me, and swiftly mounts his own horse. 

'No!' I'm shouting after him, after _them_ , I'm shouting it over and over as tears stream down my face. 'No!' 

They've made Simon Snow into their scapegoat. And I haven't a clue as to what I can do. I didn't even know the King was dead …

**SIMON**

I'm thrown into a dark cell, smelling of shit and piss and something else. Mildew, I suppose. The floors are covered in straw, and there's a single bucket in a corner for my business. No bed. No window.

Thick iron bars were immediately locked behind me with an echoing clang. So I pace the cell, and try to come to terms with all this. 

The King is dead, then. He must've died when the spell intended for me backfired, or sometime after. I find I don't feel much of anything about this particular information. He gave me a home, and a job when I desperately needed it. But he also nearly had Baz killed. Twice. (And me once.) I suppose I'm not sorry he's dead. 

I am sorry that I have to take the fall for it, though. I suppose this means my death, doesn't it? Probably something public, in the square. A hanging or a beheading. Maybe even a burning, since the King died by magic. Perhaps they think me a Mage. 

I should feel panicked, I guess. But I don't feel much of anything to be honest. I've gone numb. 

I stop by the stone wall, and sink down onto the straw floor. The wall is cold, so cold I feel it even through my clothes. But the floor has padding enough to sleep on, I suppose. 

I wonder what Baz would think of me here. I wonder if he'd care. 

Maybe he'd think it true ... that I did kill the King.

**BAZ**

Days pass.

Then days become weeks. 

True to my father's word, animal blood is brought to me daily, along with food and drink. Books, of any subject I ask for. Parchment paper, quills and ink, all to keep me entertained. 

And I don't think about ending it right away. 

No, first I do read—the Luther Bibel for ideas for spells, Erasmus’ “In Praise of Folly”, even some general housekeeping books and beginner cookery though I’m not sure why I bother. 

And I write unsent letters (to Dev, to Penelope Bunce, to … to Simon Snow). I practice my magic, but without a guide, it’s difficult. 

I start to write out something I deem my "memoirs". But this fails as soon as I realise how frightfully dull my life has been. I am the most boring homosexual magic vampire to live (and likely the only). 

All my life I have tried to shape myself into the perfect princely mould that was set out for me. I tried to fit in, to conform, to lessen certain parts of myself. I've shaved off all my unseemly edges so that all that's left is a flat, dull rectangle. In the end I'm neither good at being myself, nor someone else. 

I thought I'd done everything right, or close-enough to right. I've only drank from animals, I've studied hard, I've been the dutiful son, a dutiful King's ward. I've never hurt anybody, not really. Not physically. And they still want my head. 

Well … as the days pass, I start to wonder if I should give it to them. 

I simply do not see the point anymore. I don’t know how long a vampire lives; I don’t actually know if they’re (we’re) actually immortal, or if that’s merely fiction—part of a tale to frighten children. But, no matter the length, I just cannot see the purpose of living in my quarters until I wither away into nothing. 

I think of Simon again, even though it aches. 

I think of his unremarkable blue eyes. I think of his laugh, at near every haughty thing I'd say. I think of him chopping wood with sweat dripping down his bare chest. I think about sewing up his skin. I think about the steady pressure of his lips on mine. 

I write him a letter, because I have to. And this one I may even have them send, after it's done. It's the only goodbye that I owe anyone.  
  
  


> Simon, 
> 
> I can only guess at your feelings upon receipt of a letter from me. The last time we saw each other, after all, was strained, at best. 
> 
> I want to apologise to you, first and foremost. To be blunt, I'm sorry that in order to save me, you had to kiss me. It was never my intention to force you into something so intimate with me, and so distasteful. 
> 
> You have likely deduced by now the reason as to why it had to be you.  
>  I am in love with you, Simon Snow. 
> 
> You are the only person I have ever loved, and I have loved you for a very long time.  
>  If you're wondering, no, I did not choose to be this way. It is simply the truth, my deepest and most precious truth. My shameful truth.  
>  I hope that one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me.  
>  And please know that my time with you, in that little cottage, was the happiest of my short, cursed life. 
> 
> Goodbye Simon, I wish you a lifetime of happiness and prosperity. 
> 
> And please allow me this self-indulgent sign-off:  
>  Yours, always,  
>  Baz

Now I suppose it's only a matter of how, and when.

**SIMON**

They give me one meal a day, and it gets tossed inside haphazardly more often than not. I lick it off tufts of dirty straw. 

I'm starving, just slightly. I feel my body weakening with every day. There’s an ache in my stomach that doesn’t go away, not even with the morsels of food I’m given. 

And it's fine. This is my lot in life. 

I have a lot of time to think, now. Thinking is all I have to keep me relatively sane. 

So, amidst the silence or the wails of distant fellow-prisoners, I think about my life. 

And in the end, I realise, I've had a good one—a better one than I deserved. Granted, it started out badly: orphaned, on the streets, and dirt poor. Begging for scraps, sometimes stealing to get by, just to live one more day. 

Then I was taken in, to the castle. I'm not even sure why or how that happened. Looking back on it, all I think was _that was mad_. Like finding a bit of gold in the gutter—these things just didn't happen. _Life_ didn't happen like that. You're born poor, you die poor. You're born rich, you die rich. I know now that I was profoundly lucky, and I should've enjoyed it all more than I had. Getting to go along to balls, feasts—I had a glimpse of their world, and it was dazzling. 

Then there were the most recent events. Events that I will hold in my heart—hold them close. Baz … we made a home together, out of an old abandoned cottage. And in it … we were just two people. We weren't a prince and a huntsman; we weren't anything but two men. And I loved him, even when I wasn't consciously aware of it, as a man loves a woman and a woman loves a man. 

Penny and I had a lot of time to discuss my feelings before I was arrested. It became something of a project for her, with her scouring the castle’s library for information. In the evenings, she’d come and tell me about her research. She’d told me stories she'd found in books—of the Ancient Greeks, of Achilles the warrior and his Patroclus. Or of Alexander the Great and Hephaestion. We'd spoken about the Church's views, gone round and round about philosophy and ethics. 

But what it comes down to is simple and can't be found in a book: I love Prince Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch the First. (I know, I still want to roll my eyes at his name, even now.) But to me he's just Baz, just a person. One who sought my warmth in the night, curling into my side. He's just a person who shrieks at seaweed, who cleans with his hair tied back, who so often raises a sarcastic eyebrow at me and makes me laugh.

And that's it. Simple. 

The days keep going by, and I don't know how many. But they do. I eat what little I am given, and I think. I sleep. I wake. I think. 

I think of Baz. I think of his grey eyes, like the dark grey of the deepest part of a lake. I think of his frowning mouth. The cold press of his fingers. I think it’s the only thing keeping me sane. 

And I await my trial, my death.

**BAZ**

I sit in my chair aside the hearth, with a little flame in my hand—or rather, slightly above skin of my palm. All I need to do is press it to my chest, to my heart, and my body will ignite like parchment paper tossed in a bonfire. 

It will be quick, and I hope too quick to feel pain. 

My letter to Simon sits sealed on my desk, aside a simple note asking whoever finds my pile of ash to be sure Simon receives it. 

I don't know. 

What sort of life can I expect to have if I choose to live? This? I look around my room, a room I am already itching to leave. But I've no place to go, no place I belong. I no longer have any duties, nor any purpose. And I certainly can’t go back to Simon Snow, not when he _knows_. 

' **Ich taufe euch mit Wasser**.' 

It's a rush of cold water and now I'm soaking wet, while a woman stands in my doorway. I leap right out of my chair, and wipe the water out of my eyes before scowling at the intruder. 

My expression softens—I can’t help it. 'Fiona.' 

' _Basilton_ ,' my aunt says sternly, maybe a little frantically. 'What were you about to do?' 

I sigh, and look to the hearth, which has also been doused by Fiona's torrent and is sending vapours of wood-scented steam into the air. 

She strides over to me in a few decisive steps, and envelops me in her arms. 'Don't,' she whispers harshly. 'Don't you ever.' 

I nod against the side of her head. 

She pulls back, and grips my upper arms tight, frowning at me. ‘You’re too important. You’re—’ she sucks in a clipped breath. ‘Basilton, what were you thinking?’ 

I shrug. I just, well, I don’t know what to say. 

She waits for an answer, although I wish she’d drop it. 

‘I suppose I … just don’t know if I see the point any longer.’ 

‘ _The point_? Basilton, you are eighteen years old.’ Her tone becomes gentler, which seems odd coming from her, ‘There is so much ahead of you, can’t you see that?’ 

I look around the room—my prison. ‘Not here, not like this.’ 

‘Let me sort that, yeah?’ Fiona squeezes my biceps. ‘You are _loved_ , Basilton, you great fool.’ 

I don’t think I can take the fondness in her eyes for another moment. 'You can do magic too?' I rasp out. I think I'm very slightly weeping. 

Her gentle frown turns into a wistful smile, and she steers us bodily over to the window seat, and sets us both down. 'Yes, as your mother did. Brightest witch in the land.' 

'Mother?' 

'Yes, and I see you have it too.’ She runs a hand over the back of my head, reassuringly. ‘The Pitches are a long line of fire magicians. But I think, considering the circumstances, you should focus on something safer for you condition. Like water magic?' 

I ignore the quip. 'And why didn't I know any of this? Why wasn't there any warning that once I turned eighteen … ?' 

'You left us so young, and I couldn't exactly put it in a letter, not with that anti-magic bigot on the throne. Thank God he's dead.' 

I blink at her. 'Excuse me, what? The King is dead?' 

'Very dead.' She grins like the cat that caught the mouse. 'Your father is already planning invasion.' 

' _Invasion_?' Snow … Bunce … All of them. 'But surely that means violence, war, _death_ ...' 

Fiona does not seem concerned. 'Not if they let Hampshire take the throne quietly.' 

'I can't imagine they'd—' 

'Well it isn't your problem anymore, now is it?' 

I stare at her, and she smiles. 

'Unless … don't tell me you've a sweetheart in Watford, Basilton.' She leans forward and slaps my thigh. 

I swallow. 

'You do!' she accuses with a sharp finger to my chest. 

I squeeze my eyes shut. 

'Now what would this person think about the flame in your hand today, hmm? Wouldn't it be better use of your efforts to break out of here and go to them?' 

I take a deep breath and think: not really, no. But the King is dead, and if Fiona knows it, everyone in the neighbouring kingdoms will likely know too. Without an heir, the vultures will come with their armies and their bloodlust. I don't want to see Snow caught up in that; I need to warn him. I sit up straighter. 

'That's right,' Fiona says encouragingly. 'How about I forget to lock the door after myself, huh? And what if there's a horse waiting with supplies just at the bottom of the hill?' 

I lean in and wrap an arm around her shoulders, squeezing tight. 

'Good boy.' She embraces me right back. 'Now will you promise not to do that again?'

'I ... promise,' I say, muffled into her. 

I suppose I have a reason now—a purpose—something to grasp at. 

I need to make sure he's safe.

****

**SIMON**

The days keep passing, and no one comes for me.

My stomach would ache at first. It hurt, I was so hungry. Now I don't feel hungry any more, and the pain is gone. 

Some days I don't even think they feed me. But I'm losing track. 

It's hard to catch my breath when the food does come, like just crawling over to it is nearly too much. 

Sometimes I wonder if they forgot I'm here. 

'Snow,' a guard barks, seemingly out of nowhere, and it makes me jump. 'Stand.' 

_Oh ... This is it_. 

I find that I am afraid, now that the day has finally come. I'm quivering as I rise unsteadily to my feet and have to gasp for enough air. I thought I was ready—I certainly had enough time to come to terms with it. But … but I don’t want to die. 

The guard unlocks the bars to my cell, and ushers me forward roughly. I keep tripping over my feet as we walk, and he keeps grumbling, and righting me. 

We wind up dark stairways, and pass other guards standing at attention. I have to go slow. 

_I hope it's fast—my death_ , I think. _I hope it won't hurt too much_.

**BAZ**

My two-week journey is painfully long. It feels significantly longer than the last time I took it, perhaps because I truly want to reach my destination this time, and, with armies forming, time is of the essence.

I'm pushing my horse as hard as I can, and still I don't seem to be shaving off even a day from my ride. 

At long last, I come upon the Bunce cottage first. 

Maybe he's here, even. I dismount, and knock on the door. 

A small person—female—whom is wearing a dirty linen dress and has straight black hair down to her waist greets me with a frown and one hand on the door's edge. 'Who are you?' 

Well, then. 'I am Prince Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch the First.' And I startle myself. It was automatic—I'm so used to being a prince that I've forgotten that I'm just Baz now, stripped of any title, possibly stripped of my family name as well. I give my head a shake in an attempt to clear it, as this girl continues to frown at me, looking me up and down. I ask, 'And who might you be?' 

'Priya.' 

'Well, Priya, is Penelope in?' 

She sighs in a way I'm not sure isn't exaggerated. ' _Yes_ , she's going mad.' 

'Is she?' I ask, and I'd really love to hurry this along. 'May I speak with her?' 

'I suppose,' Priya says, and opens the door wider, stepping back into the hall, which I see is lined with neat piles of books on both sides. 

Priya skips her way down the hall as I trail behind her. She waves her hands towards an open door, then skips off deeper into the house. 

'But I don't like it that way!' I hear, coming from inside. It's a boy's voice. 

I move into the doorway and see Penelope Bunce with tufts of frizzy hair escaping from her braided up-do, seemingly frantically going from one end of the kitchen to the other, grabbing various items of food and cooking utensils to drop onto a countertop. 

'I _despise_ tomato,' the boy says. He looks a bit like Penelope, but squatter and with shorter hair. 

'Tough chickens!' 

I clear my throat, and Penelope whirls to face me, wide-eyed. 

'Basilton?' 

'Priya let me—' 

Before I can finish my sentence, Penelope has marched straight up to me and enveloped me into her arms. 'Thank _God_ you're here.' 

'Er?' I don't think anyone has ever reacted to my arrival in this way. 

She pulls back from her embrace to grip me by both biceps and proceeds to say a rapid string of words: 'It's Simon—' And my heart rate rises instantly. 'God, _Baz_ , I don't know what to _do _. They're accusing him of killing the King, and no one will listen to me. It's chaos. Baz—it's complete chaos! I keep trying to find out what’s going on at the castle, but _no one is listening to me_. And my parents have been gone for days, they sent word that they had to take care of some things over there. But when I went—today and yesterday and the day before—no one could tell me where they are or what they're doing. And Simon's just sitting there, in prison, and I don't even know if he's __okay__ —' Penelope is getting out of breath, and I'm nearly ready to panic. __

____

__

Simon? 

Simon has been charged with regicide? 

I blink as I allow this incomprehensible information to wash over me as Penelope babbles. 

'Let's go,' I say. There's no time to think on it. 'I'll rip open the gates of his cell with my bare hands.' 

She blinks at me. 'Can you really do that?' 

No, but I'll try anyway. 'There must be someone we can talk to.' 

She shakes her head slowly. 'As far as I know, they can't seem to figure out who should be in charge.' She inhales sharply, and I think I can see all the emotions she’s carefully keeping below the surface—the uncertainty, the immense _fear_ there. 

'Let's go,' I say again, because we can't do anything whilst standing here. 

‘But my supper!’ the boy complains. 

‘Fix your own supper, Pacey. You’re old enough.’ And with that, Penelope pushes me out of the kitchen while her brother protests after us. 

And I can’t think now, I can only move. 

Simon … I’m—we’re coming … and I’ll fix this, and it’ll be okay. It _has_ to be okay.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to read ❤️


	7. Chapter 7

**SIMON**

The guard leads me into a familiar room by the arm. I blink at the sharp light coming in—the _day_ light streaming in through windows, which I've become very unaccustomed to. My eyes sting, as I struggle to get my bearings. The guard lets me go, and stands aside.

And this … isn't right. 

I'm in the private quarters of the King. Everything is draped in emerald greens—tapestries, rugs. 

My heart races. He's supposed to be dead. If he isn't dead, he's going to kill me on the spot, without a trial. And he'll make it hurt. 

Across the room, a figure rises from a grand, high-backed chair next to the massive hearth. It's a man, and I don't recognise him. 

'Simon, come closer and please have a seat,' he beckons to the chair opposite his. 

This is … very strange. Am I being killed or not? 

I step forward, wary of the guard's eyes on my back and the sword in his scabbard. As I come closer, I notice more of the details in this man. He has blue eyes, and they seem gentle, watching me calmly as I move closer. His mouth is affixed in a subtle smile. 

'Simon Snow,' he muses. 'That is what they call you?' 

'Yes.' It's been so long since I've spoken to a person. My voice sounds weak and far away to my ears, as I sink into the soft chair. 

This man sits himself down, and smiles across at me with something like pity. 'I'm going to tell you a story, Simon,' he begins, and I nod in response. 'Nearly twenty years ago now, this kingdom was divided, families fighting for one throne—no clear heir after the last King's untimely death before he could sire children. The neighbouring kingdoms were gathering their troops, and it seemed an invasion was imminent. It was not very different from the situation this kingdom finds itself in now, I'm afraid.’ The man looks off toward the wall, as if he’s lost in a memory. ‘Back then, an alliance was formed—between two wealthy and powerful families. Mine—the Salisbury's—and King David's. This alliance was solidified in a marriage, between Davy—that is to say, David, and my sister Lucy.' 

The King had a wife? 

'She died giving birth to a son. Some say the boy died with her. Others say that the King could not deal with his grief, and cast the child out.' I watch, transfixed. 'And others, like myself, know the King for what he was—a dangerous mage consumed by his own selfish need to be the most powerful person in the kingdom. I believe he saw in his son a boy of no usefulness towards his goals.' 

I blink at him. 

'Simon, I believe that child was you.' 

'Me?' I echo softly. 

'You look so much like your mother.' 

I … I don't know what to think. I'm probably too tired to think, too weak.

'I am technically next in line to the throne,' he says. 'But I want to offer you a choice. Will you take the crown, Simon Snow?' 

I blink at him. 

'Right, right. This is a lot to take in,' he says, smiling at me. 'Think about it, though. You aren't a prisoner any longer—you’re free. And you have a choice.' 

A choice. 

The door bursts open. 

'Halt!' someone shouts. 

'I hereby demand the release of Simon Snow! He is innoc—unhand me!' 

My supposed uncle rises to his feet, and says, 'It's all right, Barnabas, let him go.' 

'Thank _you_.' I close my eyes at the sound of this haughty voice, this trespasser into the King's old rooms. 'Now, as I was saying: Simon Snow is innocent—it's not even possible for him to have killed the King. And there were witnesses, Premal Bunce for one. There are others, and I admit I haven't procured their names yet, but—' 

My uncle raises his hand to stop the tirade of words. 'Enough.' 

'Well I will have you know that I'm not finished!' 

I open my eyes, and I smile a little. 

My uncle's hand gestures towards me. 

Impatient footsteps pad across the floor, and they still. I hear an intake of breath, as I look up.

**BAZ**

He's terribly gaunt-looking, and _thin_. And his hair is longer, hanging limp and dull and almost to his chin. It … it breaks my heart to see him this way, but I'm also just so glad he's alive.

I swallow, letting my eyes roam all over him without shame. He's filthy. Ragged. Skin and bones. He smells truly awful. But, again, he's alive. 

Clearing my throat, I ask, 'The charges?' 

'No charges,' says the gentleman to my right. 

'He's free to go?' 

'Simon Snow is a free man, yes. Though I'm sure he's in desperate need of a warm meal, a bath, and good sleep. So I would not take him far.' 

Snow stares back at me—his blue eyes glassy and far-off. I feel a lump in my throat as I nod. 'I can take him to my old quarters, in the east wing.' 

'Very well. Barnabas, have a bath drawn up, will you? And something to eat brought to our guests.' 

'Yes, my lord.' 

Footsteps trail off down the corridor, and I take a step closer to Snow. I'm uncertain, now. It's not as if I know how we stand with one another. My plan was to plead his case, as loudly as possible, and I see now that that was unnecessary. As for what's next? I've no idea. 

'Simon,' I say softly. 'Can you walk?' 

He closes his eyes as if it pains him to answer me, and nods. He attempts to push himself up off the chair, and struggles. Without overthinking it, I rush in to grasp him by his biceps, and help him up. He sways slightly while standing, and looks directly in my eyes. I find I have to look away—his are too open, too knowing, somehow. 

He grips me by the arm, leaning his weight on me. And I know it's simply because he needs the help. I take one deep breath first, and then we move together, slowly, out the King's quarters and towards my old rooms. It feels like a century ago—when I was the King's ward, and Simon Snow was the King's huntsman—that we walked these halls, behaving like we despised one another. 

Snow stumbles every once in a while, like his feet have grown too heavy for him and he can't quite pick them up properly. 

His breaths are loud and ragged, and he doesn't speak, so neither do I. I just keep him steady, and guide us on our way. 

Once we get to my rooms, a bath is steaming from the adjoining room, while two servants stand by to assist. 

Snow takes one look at them, and shakes his head. 'No.' 

'They are here to help you,' I say. 

'No.' 

I look from one servant to the other, and relent. 'Thank you, that will be all.' 

The two of them bow deep, and take their leave. 

And now it's just us. I guide Snow in towards the large tub, and it hasn't changed at all—none of it. It's as if no one entered my quarters in the entire time I was gone. And maybe they hadn't, except Penelope, until now, in order to make a hasty clean of it and run the bath. My old soaps are still here. 

We pause together, beside the tub. 

'Can you …' I start. Oh God. 'Can you manage this alone?' 

'Don't think so.' That's the most out of him I've heard so far. His voice is so soft, so weary. 

'Shall I help you then?' 

'Please.' 

I don't know why Snow couldn't have the servants do this … but I suppose he's never had anyone help him bathe before. And perhaps a total stranger would be a shock. I take a breath, and come to face him. 

He watches my face as I pull up the old ratty and threadbare tunic up and over his head. Next comes the chemise, and I try not to focus on how prominent his collar bone has become. I don't even dare to look any lower, until I have to. 

His ribs, his sunken-in stomach. Dull, grey-ish skin rather than its usual golden tint. I kneel to remove his bottoms, without leering. I remember the cold, clinical way that servants had assisted me back in Hampshire, not so long ago now, and I try to mimic them exactly. There is nothing sexual about this, nothing lustful. Snow is half-starved, and I’ve only a mind to make him better, and make him _feel_ better. 

Snow is naked, and I don't want him to fall or trip. He’s still out of breath from the walk over. So I roll up my sleeves and scoop Snow up—I lift his light frame into my arms, and down gently into the water. 

'Thank you,' he whispers, and allows his head to lean up against the basin edge. 

I stand up to retrieve my soaps, mainly to give myself a moment. I take a breath, and return to kneel behind his head. 'Shall I wash your hair?' 

A nod. 

I use a jug to pour water down his hair, wetting it. Then I take a good amount of soap, and begin to work it against his scalp gently. 

A choked sob startles my fingers frozen. Snow's shoulders shake, and he leans more into the side of the tub. I come around to where his face his. 'Simon …' 

Another sob chokes out of him. 

'What can I do?' 

He sniffs loud and peers up at me, with wet, red-rimmed and vulnerable eyes. A hand comes out of the bath, reaching towards me, and then it falls, gripping the edge. Simon chokes out once more, watching me, and then, somehow, he smiles. 'Baz …' 

I don't know what to do— 

'I'm _relieved_ ,' he says, with tears streaming from his eyes, just watching my face. 

'So am I,' I say, quite adamantly. 

He loosens his grip on the tub's edge, and holds his palm face up, extended towards me. I put my hand in it, and his face crumples inward, red and wet with tears, and he tugs me closer and of course I allow it. I think I’ll allow anything at this point. He reins me in like a fishing line, until I'm hunched over him, and he's pressing his wet and soapy head into my neck. He holds onto me like he's clinging to a buoy while thrown overboard. 

And then he pulls away. 'Thank you,' he says again, softly, wetly. 'Thank you for coming here.' 

'I wish I'd come sooner.' 

He smiles slightly. 'I didn't expect to ever see you again.' 

'Neither did I,' I admit. I leave the events of our last meeting unsaid. Now is … not the time. 

He hastily rubs the tears from his cheeks with his thumbs, and says, 'You can keep going. With the hair. If you want.' 

So, I do, from my current position where I can see his face. I watch him shut his eyes as my fingers brush through his hair, massaging, and coaxing the soap gently downwards. A small smile grows on Snow's nearly-colourless mouth. 

I work the soap into the very ends of his hair, which used to be thick bronze curls and are now flat and subdued. I pick up the water jug, and rinse out the soap from his nearly-straight, stringy hair. Snow's eyes open, and he watches me again. He watches me like he has no awareness of it. 

'Here,' I say, handing him the bar of lye soap. 

He takes it, and runs it down his chest. I lean back on my heels, and wait. I watch his face too. He scrubs at each armpit, then the soap bar disappears under the water's surface. 

'Why did you come back?' Snow asks softly, running the soap slowly along one leg. 

I exhale. I'm not sure I want to get into it all, about my disownment, my voluntary captivity, nor my sort-of near suicide. Snow has been through enough; he does not need my woes added on to this day. So I decide to tell him about the most recent events. 

'My aunt Fiona let it slip that the King died; that this kingdom is in chaos while it decides the true successor.' 

Snow's expression turns pained at this. 

'There was talk,' I begin carefully, 'of invasion.' Snow's expression does not change. 'Which of course would mean fighting. And I … well, I felt I needed to warn you. And Bunce. And, well, everyone I've come to care about here.' (So: Snow, and to some degree Bunce.) 

Simon breathes out a shaky breath, and squeezes his eyes closed. 'I see.' 

Maybe I've said the wrong thing … I cannot guess what the _right_ thing is though. 

He hands me the soap and leans forward. 'Will you do my back?' 

I do, I lean in to rub circles over the stretched skin there, the knobby spine, and the smattering of moles on Simon Snow's back. I don't use the jug to rinse, I use my bare hand, cupping water to bring it to the top, watching the streams run down. I use my hand to wipe away the rest, smoothing over his skin in a way I hope is gentle and soothing. And not wholly unwanted. 

I finish, and my hand stills on his back, palm down flat. I feel him breathe, in, and out. I feel his heart fluttering. 

'Help me get out?' he asks softly, bringing his legs up closer to his chest. 

I keep my hand on his back, and dip the other under his knees and lift him out as water droplets fall onto the floor and myself. But I don't mind. I set him carefully on his feet, and search around for a linen. I find a clean stack, unfold one, and bring it up to Snow, holding it out wide. He steps into it, and I wrap it around him. 

'You're wet, too,' he says. 

I smile a little, but say nothing. I don't care about my clothes right now, they're far from my mind. I rub at his hair with the linen, and his upper arms. 

I slow to a stop. Snow reaches up a corner of his linen to my jaw. 'You've soap.' He blots at it carefully, and I let him. 

'Come,' I say next, leading him gently towards my bedroom. I set him on the edge of my old bed, damp with linen wrapped all around him, and go to my wardrobe to search for something he can wear. 

I pull out a warm chemise, and bring it to him by the bed. He allows me to unwrap him, and toss the wet linen aside. I pull the chemise over his head, over his arms, and down. 

'Thank you,' he says softly, letting his hands fall to his lap, palm up. 

'I'll brush your hair,' I say. I take my hairbrush from my vanity, and pull out some of the stray black hairs and discard them. I also grab my hair oil, and bring them over to the bed. I arrange myself to sit directly behind him, cross-legged, and put a small amount of oil into his hair—at the crown. Then I brush gently, mindful of the tangles. 

'It smells of you,' he remarks. ' _I_ smell of you.' 

'You'll be back to your earthy, buttery musk in no time,' I say through a smile, as I brush the hair at his temple. 

'I like it. I like this smell.' 

I don't know what to say to that, so I keep brushing. He leans some of his weight on my knee, as I brush the nape of his neck. 

'I'm an invalid,' Snow says through a heavy breath. 

'You're temporarily weakened, that is all.' 

A long pause. 'Thank you,' he says again. 

'You can stop thanking me, Snow.' 

I've finished, and his hair is now smooth and untangled. It has a bit more volume and shine. 

'Lie down, and I'll see about your meal,' I say, taking the oil and the brush, and scooting around Snow so I can go to put it away. 

I do, and I find a capped tray set by my door. I remove the lid, and find a nice set of two steaming soup bowls, fresh bread, along with some fruits and cheeses for us. I bring it carefully to the bed and set it down beside Snow. He's propped himself up by the headboard, with legs outstretched toward the end of the bed.

**SIMON**

He is so good with me.

I'm not sure I deserve it. I want to talk to him about the kiss, I want to apologise, and tell him that we can still be friends, that I can be fine with anything, really. As long as he's still a part of my life and we're on good terms with each other. But ... I'm afraid to initiate this conversation now, so soon after I've just got him back. I—selfishly, maybe—don't want to scare him away. And I’m not sure I’d have the energy to explain myself properly. 

'Try not to eat too much or too fast, or it may come back up,' Baz says, through spoonfuls of his own meal beside me on the bed. 

I nod towards the bowl on my lap, and move a spoon towards my mouth with a shaky hand. I hate being like this. But I find I don't mind that it's Baz who sees me this way. I'm glad it's him, here, really. I feel safe with him, when he's near. 

It's delicious food. Warm and comforting, settling hot in my belly and warming me from the inside. It'd been so long since I'd felt warm like this. 

We finish eating. Baz takes the dishes away and comes back to my side in order to get me settled under the covers. He tucks them under my chin, smiles at me rather sadly, and says, 'Rest now.' 

My heart rate quickens, and I try to sit up. 'Where are you going?' I don't want him to leave. 

A complicated expression flashes over his face, as he gently nudges me back down against the pillows. 'I need to … hunt.' _Oh_. 'And I should see about Bunce, she may still be wandering the castle looking for you.' 

'Penny,' I breathe out. 'She's here?' 

'Yes.' 

I don't want Penny to worry, yeah. But I don't want Baz to leave me either. 

'Rest,' he says again, gently. 

'Will you come back?' 

He seems to search my eyes, but I can't read anything in his. 'If you'd like me to.' 

'Yes.' 

'Then I will.' He pats at my shoulder a bit, then pushes up. 'Now sleep, Snow.' 

So, I do.

**PENELOPE**

The first person I spot is Trixie, beating the dust out of an old rug in the courtyard.

'Ach liebe Frau, was ist denn das? Ach liebe Frau, was ist denn das?' she sings. (I've never known Trixie to do anything quietly.) 

'Trixie!' I call out. 

She turns, and continues singing as she spots me. 'Da rumpelt in der Kammer was. Fateriterallala, fateritera,' 

I march up to her before she can start on the next verse. 'Just … a quick question?' 

'Ach lieber Mann, das ist der W—' 

'Trixie!' God, she is something else. 

An eyebrow arches and she fits me with a grin, but thankfully she's shut her mouth. 

Suppressing both a groan and an eyeroll, I ask, 'Do you know anything about Simon Snow? Do you know who I can talk to about having him released?' 

'Simon Snow,' she repeats in a sing-song. 'Didn't he go to Hampshire with the prince?' 

'Yes, well no—it's a long story. It doesn't matter. He's here, in the dungeons.' 

'The dungeons?' she repeats back loudly, placing a hand over her chest. 'Whatever for?' 

'It doesn't matter.' Lord, this woman tests my patience. 'Who's in charge? Is _anyone_ in charge?' 

A small frown forms on her mouth. 'There was a family that came in, Keris mentioned it, but honestly it wasn't very interesting.' 

This time I do groan, something like an, 'Engh!' And I swirl to leave. 

'Nice to see you again, Penelope!' she calls after me, and then she promptly resumes her thwacks against the rug, and a, 'Ach lieber Mann, das ist der Wind.' 

I barrel in through the halls, looking for Keris this time—she's always been the sensible one out of the two of them. I round a corner a bit quick, and collide with something hard and rather jagged, and find myself tumbling into a pile of books. 

'I say!' comes cheerily from underneath me. 

And I see now that there is a person underneath all these books that are poking into me and strewn about on the stone around us. I look into the bespectacled eyes of someone I've never seen before—a bloke, whom is dark-skinned and rather weedy by the looks of him. 

'Sorry,' I murmur, trying to untangle myself from him and his books. 

'Oh, that's quite all right—happens all the time,' he says with a little laugh. 

I push myself up to stand, and ask curiously, ' _Does_ it?' 

'Well, no,' he says, a bit sheepishly, as he gathers books on his hands and knees. 'Perhaps not _all_ the time.' I bend to pick one of them up that's fallen near my foot, and I hold it out to him. He takes it and adds it to the growing pile in his arms. 'Thank you kindly.' Then he lifts up to stand—and gosh, is he tall. 

'Yes, well, I _am_ sorry,' I say, suddenly feeling a bit odd by the way he's looking at me and smiling. 

'You were in a hurry,' he remarks pleasantly. 'I don't believe we've met yet. I'm Shepard.' 

'Ah, er. Penny,' I say, glancing past him, but there's no one there. 

'I'd kiss the back of your hand but I'm a bit …' He laughs, and lifts his books in explanation. 

I shake my head, as if to indicate it's not necessary. To my chagrin—I realise that my face feels quite hot, and I'm not sure it isn't from that innocent mention of a kiss. No time to think on that though—I've got Simon to rescue. 

'Where were you rushing off to, if you don't mind me asking?' 

I inhale sharply as a fresh bit of anxiety tightens my chest. 'My best friend is in the dungeons for a crime he didn't commit. I'm here to plead his case, to have him released.' 

'Say no more!' announces Shepard jovially. 'I happen to be the new court historian. Let me take you to Lord Salisbury.' 

'Salisbury,' I echo, wracking my memory for that name. Wasn't there a Salisbury in the royal tombs? 

'Yes, brother-in-law to the King passed!' He turns and leads me down the hall. 'Good man, Lord Salisbury. I'm sure you'll get along.' 

This Shepard fellow is like no one I've ever met, I reflect, blinking rapidly as he starts to prattle on about his life story—starting from a "difficult" birth.

**BAZ**

I don’t manage to find Bunce anywhere in the brief sweep I do of the common areas of the castle, so I enter the forest and find a boar with relative ease. The reminder of the last time I drank from a boar in this stretch of forest brings with it a nostalgia that is both painful and not entirely unwelcome.

I know that Snow is waiting for me … back in my quarters, lying in my bed, and hopefully sleeping well. That thought in itself is simultaneously comforting and anxiety-inducing. 

Evidently I’ve many conflicting thoughts and feelings at the moment. 

I return to find a tall bloke outside my quarters, leaning against the wall in the hallway, and twiddling his thumbs with a near-joyful expression. He hears my footsteps and turns. 

'Oh! You must be Prince Baz!' 

'Hello,' I say with veiled uncertainty. And I don't correct him about my title. I'm ... not ready.

'I’m Shepard, court historian,’ he says, extending a hand that I take without a thought. ‘Penny's just inside with Simon. She asked me to wait out here.' He smiles at me. 

'I … see.' I say, wrenching my hand out of his firm grip. 

I open the door without knocking, and find Penny perched on the bed, smiling down at a very-awake Snow. 

'He should be resting,' I say, stepping closer to this happy reunion. As I approach, I notice that Snow has more colour in his face. 'What did you do to him?' 

Penny's eyes dart to the door behind me, and she whispers, 'Bit of rejuvenation magic.' 

'I see,' I say again, and catch Snow's eye. He's staring at me again. 

'I can stay here with Simon,' Penny says. 'You can …' Then she frowns. 

'These are my rooms,' I say, just as Snow says, 'No, really, I'm _fine_.' 

A cheerful voice calls from the hall. 'I'm sure I can find Penny a suitable place to stay nearby.' 

We all turn to find Shepard smiling at us all from the doorway. He shoots a tiny wave to Snow. 'Hi, I'm Shepard. I work here now. Court historian.' 

'Hello,' Snow says slowly, furrowing his brow slightly. 

'Excellent,' I say, most decidedly. 'Bunce, you go with Shepard, and I'll keep an eye on Snow.' 

She catches my eye, and it seems like a light comes on inside that big brain of hers. A grin slowly forms on her mouth. 'Oh I _see_. Of course, Basilton. I'll give you some privacy.' And the woman has the nerve to wink at me. 

I blink at her, suddenly feeling as if I took a very wrong turn somewhere. And I don't know how to get turned back around. 

She gives a pat to Snow's shoulder, and says, 'I'll see you in the morning then. Get some rest, yeah?' Then she stands and winks at me _again_ as she passes me. My face is heating up, and I'm trying desperately not to think about what that woman is insinuating. Simon Snow is a newly-freed captor. He does actually need to rest. 

Bunce closes the door after herself, and now it's just us. 

I turn to Snow slowly, and find him watching me. 'Come to bed?' he asks softly when our eyes lock. 

And it sets my heart rate going. 'All right,' I answer carefully, and move to the opposite wall to undress near my wardrobe, with my back to him. 

I return to the bed with a fresh chemise on, to find Snow still watching my every movement. 

'I have many things I should tell you,' he says. 

And I say, 'It's late, and you need your rest,' as I climb in under the covers. 

He bites his lip. 'I slept a bit already, before Penny came.' 

'You need more sleep than that.' 

He sighs. 'I just need to say it, to tell someone.' I turn onto my side to face him, and find he's already done the same. 'So I guess the King was probably my dad.' 

I shoot up into a seated position. 'What?' 

He sighs again, and shifts onto his back. 'Yeah, he gave me up when my mum died in childbirth I guess. Or so Lord Salisbury—my uncle?—seems to think. So I'm technically like a prince. And I can have it, he says—this can all be mine,' Snow says while looking around the room. 

I follow his eyes, swallowing. 'You're a prince.' 

'Sort of.' 

'Simon, that's mad.' 

He laughs under his breath. 'Yeah, I know.' His eyes shift to mine, and they sparkle a bit, in the low light. 'We're the same, then.' 

I don't know how to tell him: _not really_. 

So I lie back down, and look up towards the ceiling this time. 'Wow.' 

'Yeah.' 

'How did you end up back at the castle, if the King had given you up?'

Snow shrugs against the bed. 'All I know is that someone found me, someone from the castle. She was a bid odd—she told me she was called Ebb, but she wore tunics and hosiery and had blonde hair cropped to her chin like a man.'

I've never heard of this person, and I'm certain I would've remembered her.

'She told me that my place was at the castle—that the King had a place for me. So, I followed her, and, ah, she was right. I was given a place to stay, and work to do.' Snow pauses, like he's remembering. 'Ebb disappeared not long after that. I never got to properly thank her.'

I'd thank her too, for making it possible for me to have met him. 'Wow,' I say again, softly, because I don't know what else to say.

'Yeah.'

So I've just lost my pedigree, and Snow is now gaining one. Well … hmm. Truthfully it makes me feel farther away from him than ever. He's moving up, and I'm moving down. I'm happy for him, I honestly am. And find I don't feel even a touch of envy. 

But I do know what this means. This means he'll rule a kingdom, and he'll need to be wise and decisive and just. And he'll need an advantageous marriage—he'll need heirs to protect the kingdom from situations such as the current one. With every day he'll be farther and farther away from me. 

'You know what this means?' I ask quietly. 

'What?' 

'You can marry Princess Wellbelove, after all.' 

Snow is silent. 

I don't know why I said it, because now it hurts. It's an ache in my chest. I've done this to myself, I _do_ this to myself—I say what will hurt, because I when I have a scab I pick at it. It's my nature.

**SIMON**

I wasn't going to try to have this conversation tonight. I was going to wait … maybe until I've slept a night in a bed, or had another few meals in me. But Penny’s made me feel a bit more clear-headed, and now seems as good a time as any …

I watch his face, in profile, as I quietly admit, 'I don't want to marry her.' 

The eyebrow that I can see lifts, and the eye widens. It darts to the side, toward me, for just a moment, but his head does not turn. There's a pause as he seems to process this. Then he licks his lips, and says, 'You'll have to marry someone suitable, a political match.' Baz takes a breath. 'You'll need heirs.' 

I know. 

And I knew as soon as it was offered that I'd decline. 

It's not me. Kingship, ruling, making choices with the good of an entire kingdom in mind. I don't want it. 

You know what I want? 

I want our cottage by the lake. I want to hunt and do the cooking. And ideally ... ideally Baz would be there with me, sharing in the chores. And we'd visit Penny on Saturdays, or invite her over for a meal. The seasons would pass by, and it would be just us, in that bed, with Baz curled into my side. And that'd be enough. That'd be more than enough, really. 

I can't even imagine a better future. 

'Baz,' I start. It's time, I think, to tell the truth. 'About the kiss—' 

His whole body tenses. 'No.' It's a line, it's a hard wall—and all I can do is blink at it. He turns onto his side, away from me, so all I see is the tenseness in his back. 

_No_. 

I … I see. 

Baz mumbles a line under his breath, and all of the candles in the room are extinguished at once. And I can’t even compliment him on his magic, with the sudden distance between us. 

I'd almost just blurted out that I'm in love with him, and he doesn't want to hear it. I would’ve explained that it’s okay if he only wants to be friends, if he doesn’t feel the same. 

I'm suddenly reminded of his face, after it’d happened. The horror, the disgust, so clearly written in his expression. And I feel like an idiot now. 

I lie in what feels like a charged silence—at least for me—for the longest time, while staring up at the darkness above my head. 

But I do fall asleep, eventually, and when I wake—much, much later—I'm alone. 

I climb out of Baz’s bed carefully, wincing at the stiffness in my joints. I’m not sure how long I slept—it feels like a long time. I pad over to Baz’s giant wardrobe, and open it up. There isn’t much left, he must’ve taken most of his clothes out … to our cottage, then to Hampshire. 

Everything’s black, and neatly pressed. It makes me smile, despite myself. I choose some of Baz’s simplest clothes, which are still quite lovely, and I dress. I’ve lost some weight, so they hang off of me a bit. 

With that sorted though, I exit Baz’s rooms and head out to find my uncle. I find him taking a stroll in the gardens with his guard from yesterday—Barnabas, I think his name was. 

He spots me before I can decide whether I’m supposed to bow or not. 

‘Simon! How are you feeling?’ he asks, breaking off from Barnabas’ side to approach me among the rosebushes. 

‘Better, sir. Thank you.’ 

He smiles. ‘I’m sincerely glad to hear it.’ 

Best just dive right into it, then. ‘Sir, I … I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate your offer. But that’s not me … that’s not … what I want.’ 

My uncle’s smile seems genuinely caring. ‘I can understand that, Simon. Just know that you have a place here, in whatever capacity you should choose.’ 

‘Thank you.’ And I mean it … I’ve never really been offered options before. ‘I’ve got a cottage, just north. That’s where I …’ 

‘That’s home, hmm?’ He understands … he gets it. ‘Well, come back to visit, won’t you? I’d love to get to know my nephew better.’ 

I nod, and swallow. 

He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Good man.’ 

Afterwards, I wander the halls and eventually find Baz quietly speaking to Shepard in a corridor that overlooks one of the castle’s many courtyards. They're leaning against a half-wall speaking in hushed tones. 

'Simon!' Shepard exclaims as I approach. 'How are you feeling?' 

Baz is blinking faster than normal, and his eyes are darting to me and away. He's pretending … he's trying to pretend nothing’s wrong here. 

All because I dared to speak three words. _About the kiss._

I … I don't know whether to hate this or feel resigned to it. 

'Better, thanks,' I say, trying to smile. 

'Excellent,' Shepard says. 

'Well I'm …' Fuck, I wish he'd look at me properly. 'I'm going back to—' _Our_ —I swallow hard. '—my home today. So, er, I guess it's …' _Goodbye_. Fuck I wish I could just be … direct … 

'That's great!' says Shepard. 'Feeling well enough, eh?' 

'Yeah.' I keep looking at Baz, but he keeps looking off out the courtyard. He keeps pushes his jaw out and in, teeth teasing at his bottom lip. It's a whole thing. 'Well, er, goodbye, then.' 

He looks at me, then. And there's something in his eyes, something. And I wished he'd just _speak_. 

'See you around, I'm sure,' Shepard says cheerfully. 

'Yeah.' I nod, and I send them a little wave because I guess that's all I can do. 

I don't think Baz and I are friends anymore.

**BAZ**

I watch Snow’s back retreat, dressed in my dark clothes that don’t suit him, and I nearly call out after him, though I don’t know what I would say … (“I’m _sorry_ ”?) (“Please don’t leave—not like this”?) (“I just need … _time_ ”?)

But … but I don’t even know what I’d need time for. I already know the truth of my feelings, and the shamefulness of them. As does he, I think. And that’s why we can never go back to the way things were. It’s … better if we put it behind us. All of it.

‘So, Baz, when can you start?’ 

‘Straight away,’ I murmur. 

I’d woken up this morning with my head nestled into the crook of his neck, and my palm flat against his beating heart. 

‘Wonderful! Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll show you what we’ve done so far with the library,’ Shepard says happily, already leading the way.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Trixie was singing is the folk song "Es wollt ein Bauer früh aufstehn" and you can listen to a version [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zHfQcy1ol68).
> 
> Thank you for reading ❤️


	8. Chapter 8

**PENELOPE**

Simon is … changed. Quieter, subdued. He's staring at his own hearth unblinking.

'It all worked out, huh?' I say with an enthusiasm I'm trying to feel. 'You're free, and Baz is awake, right?' 

A slow, sad smile grows on his mouth. 'Yes.' He doesn't even look at me. 

I watch him for a moment. 'Simon, are you going to be okay?' 

He looks at me then, maybe reading something in my voice. Reading that I need him to say "yes", to say that this is only temporary. 'I'm fine.' When my expression doesn't change he adds, 'Like you said, I'm free. Baz is awake. You're fine, too. And there's a new person at the castle to set everything in the kingdom to right. It's … fine.' 

I try to smile, like I believe him. 'And you with Baz …' 

He looks back to the crackling fire then. I can't read him. 'He doesn't want …' He swallows slowly. 'It's fine.' 

I … wish I could make it easier, wish he could have everything he's ever wanted.

**BAZ**

Penelope Bunce comes charging into the library. I drop my quill, and straighten. She's heading for Shepard and not looking at me.

'Shepard,' she says. 

'Penelope Bunce! Wonderful to see you! What brings you to the castle library today?' 

'I need a book on poisons.' 

_Poisons_? 

'Bunce, is—' I stop myself. She turns her head away from me deliberately, with nose in the air. 

'Of course,' Shepard says, darting his eyes over to me with uncertainty. 'Follow me, we're fortunate to have a robust section on the various plants or—' 

'I wonder if you have anything on poisonous potions.' 

I'm pushing out of my chair to stand. 

' _Potions_ ,' Shepard repeats. 'Yes, we have an extensive catalogue on magically-brewed poisons.' 

'Bunce—' I try again, and she very pointedly does not turn her head as she follows Shepard into the stacks. I trail along behind them like a fool. But my heart is racing—fast for a vampire anyhow. 'Bunce.' 

She rounds on me without warning. 'Oh don't act like you care, Basil.' 

I blink at her. 'I don't know what you …' I wince, and reach for her arm.

She turns away and hurries after Shepard. 

And I'm left holding a hand out in the air as she and Shepard disappear off into the stacks. 

I lower my hand slowly. My breaths are ragged and uneven. And this is wholly unfair—Penelope waltzing in here and being cryptic on purpose when she should know that I … that I cannot tolerate any harm coming to our mutual acquaintance. 

I am all-too-aware that there is absolutely no indication that anything is amiss. 

And yet … 

And yet … 

I spin on my heal, and I'm waltzing out of that sodding stuffy library to borrow a horse. 

And then I ride hard, down the road that hadn't existed before the day I was nearly killed. It takes me to the place I once lived, with Snow, before the King came for me. I tie the reins of the horse to a tree branch, and I knock on the door. 

No answer. 

I am properly worried by now. But who would poison Simon Snow—hasn't he been through enough? Surely he deserves a break from hardship, at least for a little while. 

I push the door, and it opens for me. Inside a fire crackles in the hearth, but there's no one there. 'Snow?' I call out, and wait. Nothing. 

So I walk the length of the main floor and check the far room, where I used to sleep once, against my will. 

There's the bed. It's made neatly, but there's no one inside. I double back and take the stairs upwards, two at a time. 

I blink at what I find there: a proper bed, elevated off the floor on a nicely-crafted wood frame; then there's a proper side table, with a ceramic vase filled with fresh wildflowers and an unlit lantern atop it; I spin to view the window, which has been adorned with fabric curtains; and there's an actual wooden wardrobe aside the old trunk. It's all really lovely and tidy. And the room makes my chest ache—because it means Snow has gone on, _moved_ on, since our time together here. I see no signs of myself, of my former presence. 

I gaze out the window, at the path that leads out to the lake. It's now covered in flat light-grey stones, and lined by flowers. I swallow, as my eye follows it to the shoreline through the trees. I can just make out that the rocky shore has been cleaned up—now more pebbly like the swimming spot further down. 

And there, through branches of trees, I see a tawny-skinned body floating in the lake. 

I rush out, down the stairs, and out the door, down the pathway to the lake's edge, and stop with an abrupt halt before the water begins. I try to catch my breath as I look, _assess_ , ready to dive in with all of my clothes on if I must. 

And it _is_ Simon Snow, floating on his back on the still water's surface with arms stretched out to each side. His eyes are closed; his mouth arranged in a soft smile. And his chest is moving up and down with every breath.

He's just swimming, just floating.

'Snow!' I call out. 

His ears are under the surface, I realise. He can't hear me. 

I sink down onto my arse, right there on the pebbly shoreline, which I find is next to a neat pile of fabric. 

I know I could go, and I know that I probably should. He hasn't even seen me, and he looks perfectly fine and _not_ poisoned. It was presumptuous and pointless for me to come. Snow is certainly not my business—he has the Bunces to take care of him if he needs it. 

We aren't even friends now, we're nothing. 

There is no purpose to my being here.

And yet ... I'm not moving.

**SIMON**

I let my legs sink, righting myself. There's nothing like a good swim to relax me, really. The quiet stillness of this place, the rustling of leaves in the slight breeze, the odd bird call. It's … so rejuvenating.

I turn to move in, wiping the wet hair off my face. 

I freeze at the black shape on the shoreline—my immediate thought is _bear_. My heart rate is going double—maybe even triple—time. I blink at it, and I focus properly. 

It's Baz. 

That knowledge in itself does nothing to slow my heartbeat. 

He's sat on the ground, with arms wrapped around raised knees. 

I approach, wading through the water until it's waist deep. 'Baz.' 

His head raises. 'Hello, Snow.' 

I don't know whether to laugh or not at his casualness. 

Baz clears his throat and unfolds the linen from beside him—the one I'd left for myself to dry off with. He stands and holds it out toward me, pointedly looking off to the left. 

All right, then. I walk out of the water and take the linen from him, rubbing it over my head and chest, before wrapping it around my waist. 

I could ask him why he's here, or I could accept it like it's normal for us. If it's something simple, like a question or a small matter of castle business, he'll be gone before I can enjoy this. Enjoy ... his company. In the end, I ask, 'Come inside for a drink?' 

His eyes slide over to my face. 'Sure.' 

I bend to pick up my clothes, and lead him back to the cottage. We walk the path in silence, and when I push open the door, I say, 'I'll just pop up to get changed.' Should I tell him to make himself comfortable? I find I don't want to, because those words imply that this place is mine, that he's a guest here. (Even if it's true.) 

'All right.' 

I head up the stairs and attempt to dry myself off a bit more thoroughly, before dressing.

**BAZ**

I look around properly this time, now that I'm not in a panic about Snow's safety. Granted, it's a different manner of panic now—a "I'm not sure what I'm doing here," and a "I don't know what to say to you" panic.

The main room has been upgraded too. There's a second chair by the hearth, and a little rug. The window has another set of linen curtains, like upstairs. Another vase of flowers sits on a proper table. It's homey. 

I move through everything, running my fingers over clean surfaces. 

And I take out two ceramic mugs, filling them with beer while I wait. I take them to the chairs by the hearth, and sink into the new one. It's well-made, sturdy, and surprisingly comfortable for something made entirely of wood. It's like it was made for me. 

The stairs creak. I turn to find Snow stepping off the last step and searching the room for me. When our eyes lock, he smiles slightly, and heads over. That look, that little smile, gets my heart going again.

And I'm happy to find he looks better, in general. He's gained his normal weight back on, and his face seems relaxed, like the fresh air out here has done him good. 

I hold out the mug for him, and he takes it, sinking into the chair beside me. 'Thanks.' He takes a sip, and peers at me through his lowered eyelashes. 'Do you like the chair?' 

'It's adequate,' I say, because I'm a git. I take a sip of beer, extend my legs, and watch the flames in the hearth. 'Who made it?' 

'I did.' 

Shocked, I look at his face for confirmation, but he's just looking at the fire, too, with a small smile still on his lips. 'I'm … impressed,' I admit. 

His smile widens, just slightly. 

_Fuck_. What are we even doing? 

'You're a carpenter, now?' I eventually ask. He's changed so much. 

'Sometimes. I enjoy it.' 

There's a silence, and I don't know how to cross it. I don't know where to go with it, what to say or do or ...

**SIMON**

It's so nice to have him here, even if we aren't talking at the moment.

Baz breaks the silence first. ‘I hear you gave up the crown.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ _Why_?’ 

I glance at him, and then I look around the cottage. ‘Because _this_ is what I want.’ This—the cottage. And, this— _you_. Here. _With_ me. (But I'm not going to say all that, I don't think, because I don't want him to leave.)

'Maybe I should go,' Baz says suddenly, as if I _had_ just said my thoughts aloud. 

And I guess I'm not surprised he's said that, since I've had a pretty good feeling that whatever semblance of relationship we've cultivated together was over, as much as I don't want it to be. Still, it doesn't feel good. 

You know what? I think I'm sick of this—this avoidance, this awkwardness, like we're dancing around a truth that has never even been stated. 

Baz hasn't made a move to get up yet, he's still sipping at his beer, and I can see his jaw twitching as he pretends to be interested in the fireplace. 

'Baz.' He doesn't even look at me. 'This is stupid, I've known you since we were eleven.’ Baz's jaw muscle twitches again. 'So I kissed you once, _so what_? Can't we just—' 

He's looks at me now—with eyes blazing, and mouth pulled back in what I'm not sure is a wince or him angrily baring his teeth at me. ' _Don't_ ,' he pushes through his teeth. 

' _Why_?' I'm pleading with him. 

'It's _wrong_ , it's _unnatural_ —' 

'Says who? The Church? Baz you aren't even religious—' 

'It's disgusting—' 

I stand up. I'm breathing heavy and my heart's pounding but I can't stop. 'Is it the act itself that is so detestable to you, or is it me?' 

He's stopped his tirade—and is staring at me. He looks like he's in pain. 

'I'm sorry, all right?' I heave out. 'I'm sorry that it was me, and not anyone you'd rather it be. I'm sorry that I love you, when you don't want me to.' I laugh a little—and it comes out a bit maniacal. 'It's not like I meant for it to happen, it just did, and now I—I _can't_ deny or pretend otherwise anymore.' 

The painful expression slides off of Baz's face, left with something blank. 

'If you don't want to, or _can't_ , put it behind us, then why even come here unannounced? Why even stay in this fucking kingdom? Why all these walls you've put up, huh? And I don't mean literally. Just … you're driving me mental, I hope you realise.' 

He's blinking at me fast. 'Snow …' And it's a whisper. 

I wait, and I try to breathe properly.

And nothing happens. He says _nothing_.

'Why _don't_ you go, then?' I nod to the door, and clench my fists. I've a giant-sized lump in my throat, I'm sure I'll start to cry if he stays even a moment longer. 

He stands, but doesn't make towards the door. 'What do you mean …' He breaks off and licks his lips. 

And I don't know what he's fucking asking. 

'What do you mean you love me?' 

Oh this is torturous. This is almost worse than the dungeons. 'I don't know,' (because how do you even answer that question? "I love you" just means "I love you.") 'I just do. I thought that was pretty clear, based on the spell.' He does know about what broke the spell, doesn't he? Oh God, what if he doesn't? ' _Love's first kiss_ ,' I add in a hurry. 'The Sleeping Death spell.' 

He blinks slowly at me, and a line forms between his eyebrows. 'That spell was obviously referring to me and my own feelings. I was the one under the spell, Snow.' 

'Not necessarily—what if it had to be someone who loved you? It wasn't specific in the wording. And that was my first kiss, so …' 

Baz's eyes widen a fraction, but he carries on, 'No the spell was clearly for me. And that was my first too.' 

What? 'But Princess Agatha, Penny—' 

He scowls at the mention of their names. 'I don't think it counts as a first kiss if you're passed out.' 

'But that day, in the forest—' Baz raises an eyebrow. '—I saw you with the princess, hand-in-hand. It looked like you were about to—' 

'She caught me,' he interrupts. 'She … interrupted my _meal_. I was asking her very nicely not to tell anyone.' 

I blink at him. 

He stares back at me. 

'Are you saying …' I ask. 

'It doesn't matter what I'm saying.'

**BAZ**

_I'm sorry that I love you, when you don't want me to._

Had I really heard those words, coming from Simon Snow? 

They're echoing around in my head, bouncing around the walls of my skull, and I can't keep track of what direction I'm being pulled in right now. Part of me says the door, another part says this is exactly where I need to be. The former is the older, reliable part of me. Something I've lived with and depended on for years. The latter is something new, something I'm not sure can be trusted. 

I don't know which to listen to. 

'Of _course_ it matters,' Snow says, and he's searching my eyes. 

He doesn't get it. 'I'm a homosexual, Snow,' I admit, for the first time, _out loud_ , and I expect him to recoil. 

'Okay,' he says, furrowing his brow at me. 

'It means I'm exclusively attracted to men.' 

'I know what it means, and I don't see why that's a problem. You're a bloke, and I'm—' 

'It's _illegal_.' 

Snow stares at me for a moment. 'Do you really think that other people should have a say in who or how you love?' 

There's that word again. 'Snow, are you really trying to tell me that you love me, right now? And that we should be together?' 

'Are you trying to tell me that you love me too, and that we _shouldn't_ be together?' 

This is … this is so wholly unexpected. All of it. It’s too much. My hands are shaking, and I think I'm close to breaking. And I think I want to run off. 'Answer my question.' 

' _Yes_ , Baz.' He looks almost pissed off. 

'I … I see,' I'm looking at the door now. 

It's stuffy in here. It's stuffy and the air is stagnant, and the walls are all too close together. 

'I just …' I say, under my breath, and finally listen to the voice that says _go_. 'Just let me …' I'm already walking out. 

'Baz,' Simon calls after me. 

But I open the door, and I step outside, shutting the door behind myself. It's bright, and there's a chill in the air. How long have I been here? The sun is starting to set. The horse I borrowed is still tied up to a tree branch, and eyeing me warily. 

That's right, I brought a horse. I can't just leave her here. She should be taken back to the castle. 

I stare at her, and I deflate. 

My chest aches. 

I turn to the wooden door that now separates me from Snow. 

And then I open it. Snow is hunched over in the chair, with his head in his hands, and he lifts up as he hears me. I see a flash of his face twisted up in anguish, and then the expression is carefully tucked away. 

'Come outside?' I ask. 

He pushes himself out the chair and comes to join me out in the fresh air. The sky is streaked with orange and purple, casting soft shadows. 

I gesture to the horse. 'I brought a horse.' I feel like an idiot, but it's all I know to say right now. 

He looks over my shoulder at her, then back at me. 'Okay.' 

'She should be brought back.' 

'All right.' 

'I don't think I want to go.' I'm not sure I meant to say that out loud. 

He blinks at me, and his eyes are so blue, so bright. 'Then don't. It's not going to rain or anything.' 

'She needs shelter and hay and …' 

'So I'll take her.' 

'It's getting late, it'll be too dark—' 

'Baz, what do you _want_?' 

I'm a wreck. Simon Snow loves me and I'm unravelling. 'Together.' 

He pauses. 'All right, let's go.' 

Snow takes off for the horse, and I trail behind like a lost dog. 

'Do you want to be in front or behind?' 

'I don't know.' 

Another pause. 'Well go on, climb up.' 

I stick my foot in the stirrup, take hold of the saddle, and hoist my other leg up and over. Snow unties the reins from the tree branch, then he comes and nudges my foot out of the stirrup, and uses it for himself, hauling himself up to sit in front of me. 

'Hang on,' he says, before snapping the reins. 'Hüa!' 

I grab onto Snow's waist as the horse takes off. Snow steers her onto the road, and brings her into a light gallop. Since I don't have stirrups, I keep my legs snug against the horse—my thighs pressed to the backs of Snow's. 

We're moving as one, bouncing up and down slightly. I hold him close to keep from flying off, and I can feel the heat off him, and the muscles shift as he rides. He's so solid and warm, and I'm just focussing on that—on the feel of him—and nothing else.

Trees pass us on either side, becoming darker and darker by the minute. 

The castle looms ahead, with many soft flickering lights illuminating its windows. Snow steers us toward the stables, and slows us to a stop with a, 'Hüü.' 

I slide off first, then he jumps down beside me. 'I'll get her settled.' 

'Okay,' I say. 

I'm not sure of what I'm about to do tonight—it feels like a crossroads, that I'm choosing the path I never thought was possible to take. It's … strange. And frightening.

Snow returns a moment later. 'It's getting proper dark, huh? Guess we'll need your eyes.' I appreciate that he didn't say _vampire eyes_ out in the open like this. 'That is, if you still want to …' 

Return to Snow's cottage? He's asking if I've changed my mind. 

'Let's go,' I say, and head back towards the road. And I feel like I could cry, if I let myself. I don’t know what I’m doing. 

Snow hurries to walk next to me. 'So, ah, how long do you plan to stay in Watford? You never said.' 

'Indefinitely,' I say through a heavy sigh. 

'Yeah?' Snow sounds pleased. 

I start to tell him about my father, about my disinheritance. How I was locked up in a room because he didn't want me near his other children. I’m babbling—all of it is just rushing out of me. 

'That's so fucked up,' Snow seethes. 

'Well … suppose he's got a point. I am a vampire.' 

'No, he's an arsehole.' 

I snort, and Snow stumbles into me. I reach for him in order to right him. It is quite dark, even for me, because it's a new moon tonight and overcast. We've a blanket of blackness overhead, with no stars in sight. I haven't let go of him, and Snow surprises me by hooking his arm through mine as we set off again. 

We walk in silence for a while, arm-in-arm. I'm his eyes, I suppose. 

'I'm really sorry that happened to you,' he says.

'It's ...' I was going to say fine, but I don't think it is. 'It hurts,' I admit, and he squeezes my arm in solidarity. 'I was thinking of ending it.'

Snow slows his steps. 'What do you mean?'

'My life. I had a plan to end my life.'

' _Baz_ ...' And there is so much emotion evident in his tone, that I startle.

'Well I ... I just didn't see the point any more,' I say slowly, with some uncertainty. Maybe I shouldn't be talking about this. 

'Why not?' he gasps out. He's gripping my arm tighter, and I hear him inhale a shaky breath. 

'Because I wasn't a prince any longer. I had nothing left—no duty or purpose, and no place I belonged ... I'm a homosexual magic vampire, Snow, and I was confined to my quarters, without anything I could possibly look forward to—'

'What about _me_?'

'You?' I blink.

'What about what that would do to _me_? '

'Well I was sure you'd be fine—'

' _I wouldn't_ —'

'I'd left you a note—'

' _A note_?' 

'Yes,' I say, and I'm finding the force of Snow's emotions a bit alarming. 'I'd explained myself, my feelings, and I'd apologised for forcing you into that situation—'

'You didn't force me,' he says, and it almost sounds angry. 'I wanted to kiss you. I _loved_ you. I was going mad watching other people try, while simultaneously wanting them to be the one, and _not_ wanting them to be the one, because, deep down, I think I'd wanted it to be me all along—that you loved.' He inhales a shaky breath, and it sounds a bit wet. 'I wanted you to love _me_.'

'Oh.'

'Baz, you don't even know how I reacted when I came back to find you on the floor. I thought you were dead then, and it completely wrecked me.' I blink at this, at this information. I never would imagine— 'I cried for hours, into your chest. I blamed myself, and I ... I didn't want to imagine a world without you in it. I couldn't.'

'I ... see ...' There are tears in my eyes. 

'You are so important to me, don't you know that? And even if you decide you don't want anything more than friendship with me, I still want you to be a part of my life. I _like_ you, I enjoy your company, and I can't tolerate the idea of you wanting to ... to die.' A choke bursts out of him then, and it startles me.

Without thinking too much, I stop us both in our tracks, and manoeuvre Snow into my arms. He wraps himself into me, tightly, with his arms around my waist. I've got his slightly-quivering shoulders in mine, as he buries his face in my neck, rasping for breaths. 

I did not know he would react this way, at just the thought of my death.

**SIMON**

I hate it ... I hate thinking about Baz alone in some castle room, locked in, and thinking that no one in this world would care whether or not he lived or died. I don't know if I've done a good enough job at convincing him that I care—that in fact I'd be devastated.

'You're not alone,' I say into Baz's collarbone. My temple is pressed tight into his neck, and I _feel_ him swallow. 'You've always got me,' I continue, because I guess I can't help it. 'In whatever way you want.'

His hands tighten around my shoulders, and we're so close—so close I can feel his faint heart beat and the rise and fall of his chest flush against me. 

I just want to hold him, to prove to him that I want to keep him safe, that I want to always be there for him. To prove that it can be him and me, against the whole world, if need be. If he wants.

He leans his head into the top of mine, breathing out slowly. 'I'm not going to kill myself.'

'No?' I ask, pulling back as if I could look at his face to assess the truth there (but I can't, it's too dark). His words make me feel some relief, I really hope they are true. 

'No.'

I wish I could see his face. 'Will you promise to tell me if you feel that way again? No matter what state our relationship, or lack of one, is in—you'll tell me?'

'I'll tell you.'

I'm smiling, despite the tears slipping down my cheeks. 'Good.'

Baz takes my arm again, and steers me back towards the cottage.

**BAZ**

I feel like someone's taken a scouring brush to my insides. All this talk of feelings has been ... well, a lot. And I think I've become worn out. I just ... Yeah, it's a lot.

We walk in silence for many minutes. And I wonder at what this night will bring; what will tomorrow look like?

'Baz, you should know, I've been thinking a lot lately about the ethics of homosexuality.' 

I let out a surprise laugh—couldn't help it, really. 'Have you?' I find that I'm amused rather than affronted by the topic coming up again. 

'Yeah, you see, there's no logical reason against it as far as I can figure.' Snow then launches into an explanation on how the Church is meant to be about loving your neighbour anyway, that Christ himself welcomed a sex worker as a follower so his very nature is loving and forgiving. He talks about the argument that two men cannot have children, and counters with the amount of orphans and abandoned kids out there. How just because two parents are opposite sex doesn't make them good parents. And how two men can take in children who don't have anyone—and isn't that better? Isn't that more Christian? He goes on like this, and I listen. 

'And when it comes down to it, what does it matter? We're just people—consenting adults. And I don't even think men and women are fundamentally different to begin with. Like … like Penny. She's not so different from you, actually. You're both dead clever, headstrong, stubborn. But, I mean, not that I'm saying I'm attracted to Penny, she's like a sister to me.' 

'I know.' 

'Right. So yeah, what does it even matter what's under our clothes?' 

Well … I think I can admit Simon Snow makes a good argument. 

'What do you think?' he asks after a while. 

'I think … your arguments are worth consideration.' 

He laughs, like he's happy, and grips my arm tighter. My free hand finds his—his that is wrapped around my arm—and I lay it there feeling the warmth of his knuckles. 

After a time, I say, 'I'm sorry that I have caused you pain.' 

'Well I … I mean, it's _okay_.' 

It's so dark, and the only sounds are our breaths and the soft padding of our feet on the road. 'You are the only person I've ever wanted.' 

It gives me a rush to admit it out loud, to _him_ , just as much as it frightens me. 

Snow stops walking, which, in turn, stops me from walking. 'You know, I’ve always believed you hated me. You’ve acted like you hated me.' 

I can just slightly make out the edges to his features. 'Acted, yes,' I admit. It's even quieter now, without our footsteps. 

'Why?' 

'Because the opposite was true.' He opens his mouth, but I keep going. 'Because I thought I was protecting myself, protecting my, ah ... heart.' 

Snow opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it. And now he's biting at his bottom lip. His eyes flick to the sky, but they're unseeing. 

My fingers shift on the back of his hand. Without a word, Snow's hand slides down, dropping from my arm. He shuffles closer, facing me head on, rather than having us speaking at a slight angle. His hands fumble forward, and find my wrists. 

I don't know what he's doing, as his hands dip down and slip into both of mine—his fingers warm and calloused, gripping just tight enough. 

‘I love you,’ he says under his breath. 

And it makes my chest feel impossibly warm, hearing it properly and simply stated. 

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he adds. 

‘I love you.’ 

It feels like my heart is bursting through my chest to be given to him. And I suppose it is—being given to him, _offered_ to him. 

He sucks in a sharp breath at my words. 'Will you kiss me?' 

And I think all the air is gone from my lungs—my heartbeat is racing. 

Snow waits, with his hands in my hands. 'Only if you want to.' 

He’s worrying his bottom lip, like he's unsure of how I'll react. 

I don't know what I'm doing, and I'm not sure I even know how to kiss properly, but I lean in closer, and I can feel Snow's warm breaths as his grip on my hands tightens. I'm hovering close to his mouth, and Snow is waiting, letting me do this at my speed. He's not going to meet me even part of the way. I look down under my eyelashes at his mouth, it's so close. 

_Just kiss him_ , my mind prompts. I want to—I've wanted to for so long.

So, I close the distance, and it's the warm, cushy skin of Snow's mouth. It's a part of him that I've spent a great deal of time thinking about, thinking it forbidden. And Snow pushes back softly against my lips. Now the only sounds are of our breaths, and the slight sounds of our mouths moving against one another's. 

He tastes of skin and saliva and I could happily die like this—kissing him. 

Snow releases my hands and reaches for my waist—drawing me in closer. My hands find the sides of his face, grazing over the smooth skin on his jaw, over the shells of his ears, which feel colder around the edges from the night. My fingers lace into his hair. And I kiss him. I kiss him. And he opens his mouth, and flicks out a hot tongue. I meet it with mine, just touching the tip to his, and he gasps into my mouth. 

I love you, Simon Snow. 

Snow breaks away first, and rests his cheek against mine. 'How was that?' he asks quietly. 

'Perfect,' I say, just as quietly. 

He laughs under his breath, and loops his arm in mine again. 'Let's go h—' He cuts himself off. 

'Were you going to say _home_ , Snow?' I ask, as we set off walking together again. 

He laughs, a little nervously this time. 'To tell you the truth, I’ve never really stopped thinking of it as our home.’ 

I exhale softly out of my nose and hold his arm a little tighter. I'm smiling. 'I … like that.' 

'I know it's too early to ask if you want to live with me, but, ah, just know … well, you always have a place there.' 

Oh, Simon ... I stop him, so I can kiss him again, and he's smiling around my mouth. 

It takes us much longer than it needs to, to return to the place that feels like home, _is_ home. 

The fire in the hearth has burnt down to embers. Snow adds logs to it, poking at the fire with an iron rod making sparks and crackles, filling the air with the scent of burning wood. I come up next to him, and watch the firelight dance across his face, bathing him in equal parts warm glow and shadow. 

With a flicker of his eyes, he notices I’ve been staring. A slow smile spreads across his face. ‘What?’ 

I take a slow breath in, and his smile slowly fades into something softer, something I can’t quite name. He’s watching me. And I feel—I feel _seen_. 

It’s different, being together in the light of the fire now, knowing how he feels about me, about this—us. Now knowing the feel of his mouth on mine more deliberately. 

I smile. I don’t know why—I suppose I’m simply happy. Snow sees it, and looks deep into my eyes, blinking slowly. 

So this is us, then. I can have this.

I take a step closer to him, and I reach my hands up to the sides of his head, coming to gently cradle it in my hands. 

And I move in slow, I kiss him slow. 

And afterwards, I don't even pretend I'm going to sleep in that awful tiny room of my forced, enchanted sleep. Instead, I follow Snow up the stairs, and tumble into bed with him, dressed in only our chemises. And we kiss some more, we embrace, and Snow inserts his warm bare knee between mine. We fall asleep in each other’s arms, holding on to one another like I’ve always wished, always yearned for. And now, somehow, I've been blessed with this, with him. And it feels like the exact opposite of "wrong".

**PENELOPE**

I drop in to Simon's cottage on the way to the castle.

And by the hearth is Simon and Baz dressed in only their chemises, and knee-to-knee. Baz is leaning forward and smiling at Simon, with his hand on Simon's thigh. 

I clear my throat. 

They both turn to me, and I notice the dreamy smile on both of their faces doesn't even fade a fraction. 

'Oh, hello, Penny!' says Simon. 

I raise an eyebrow and come closer. 'Well isn't this lovely. Baz, don't you have work at the castle?' 

Baz's tears his eyes away from Simon and frowns at me, furrowing his brow. 'Yes.' It's as if he's forgotten. He exhales heavily. 'I suppose I'll … get myself dressed.' 

Simon looks as disappointed as Baz does—as Baz stands up, and heads upstairs. 

I sink into the newly-available chair. 'This is cosy, hmm?' 

Simon beams at me. 'We're, um …' 

'Yes, I gathered that,' I say fondly. I reach over to grab his hand and squeeze it. 'I'm happy for you.' 

He smiles. 'Thanks, Pen.' 

When Baz descends the stairs fully-dressed, I stand up, and Simon follows behind me. 'We can walk to the castle together,' I tell Baz. 

'All right.' 

He hesitates by the door, and turns to Simon. 

'I'll see you later?' Simon asks. 

A soft smile grows on Baz's mouth. 'Before sundown.' 

'Okay, great,' Simon says, and you can even hear the grin in his voice. 

Baz hesitates, and looks at me. And I could laugh—yeah, yeah, _I get it boys._ So I step out the door and wait for them to kiss goodbye. 

Baz joins me a moment later, not quite meeting my eyes. He clears his throat and says, 'Shall we?' 

I try to hide my smile. 'Yes.' We head down the road together, side-by-side. 'You'll be good to him, won't you?' 

'I intend to.' 

'Good.' 

We walk in silence for a little while before Baz breaks it, 'You think you're clever, don't you?' His tone is accusatory, though not quite venomous, but I can't always be sure with Baz. 

'I beg your pardon?' 

'Yesterday, in the library. That scheme of yours about the poison.' 

'Yes, I recall. But I wouldn't call it a _scheme_ per se.' 

'Don't tell me you didn't come charging in like that just to get me worried that Snow was in mortal peril?' 

I laugh, and glance at him from the corner of my eye. 'Despite appearances, not everything revolves around Simon.' I nudge him with my shoulder. 'You were worried, hmm?' 

' _Yes_.' 

'You went straight to him and snogged him on the spot, huh? I guess we can say that I'm responsible for your whole relationship. Every anniversary from now on you owe me a present.' 

He scoffs. 'We didn't—' 

I shoot him an eyebrow. 

'Not straight away,' he grumbles. 

I smile, satisfied. Baz's family is loaded—his dad's a sodding King after all. I wonder what presents I can expect. 'I enjoy rare books.' 

Baz sighs. 'Noted.' 

'All right,' I relent. 'I might've considered you'd be concerned if I rushed in talking about poison. And yes, I did think you were being exceptionally thick-headed, which is unusual for you, and thought you needed a push. _But_ I also went to library as an excuse for Shep's company. I needed a topic that was interesting and urgent enough for his undivided attention.' 

He barks a laugh, and when I look at him an eyebrow is raised at me. 

'Since we're sharing so much about ourselves lately,' I add, smiling a little. 

'Was that really your version of flirting?'

'Well ...' I consider this. 'Yes? What's yours, then? Scowls and convincing people you hate them?'

He sighs audibly. 'Perhaps not any more.'

'Good, because I think Simon would prefer being convinced of your love.'

'He has it.'

'I know,' I say, through a grin.

Baz clears his throat. 'So you and the court historian, then. You think you can tolerate that level of enthusiasm every day?' 

Laughing, I say, 'I think it's nice.' 

'All right, I suppose I can help out a bit, since you—' 

'Are solely responsible for the happiness that you and Simon are now experiencing.' 

He groans at me. 'Whatever, yes. Fine. Do you want me to help or not?' 

'Yes, please,' I say happily, and link an arm through his that I suspect he is now merely tolerating. 

I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship. And, maybe, a beautiful life for all of us.  
  
  
  
_… And they all lived happily ever after_  
**THE END**

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably silly of me to mention after all those Big Emotions™, but I did scour the internet for how the Germans said "Yah!" and "Whoaaa" to horses, and found they said, "Hüa!" and "Hüü."
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it ! ❤️❤️


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